


Fucking Animals

by pointerbrother



Category: One Direction
Genre: Alpha Harry, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Angst, Beta/Omega, Cuckolding, Dubious Consent, Gay Sex, Humiliation kink, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Minor Character Death, Omega Louis, Polyamory, Rape/Non-con Elements, Smut, Spanking, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-02-11 08:43:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 116,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12931692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pointerbrother/pseuds/pointerbrother
Summary: “Just, off the record,” she says, voice lower, eyes sharper, crook of her mouth quirking up a little, “don’t you ever miss it? A good knot? You must.”Louis blinks and then swallows, thickly. “No,” he exclaims, offended that she’d even ask, “I love my husband. And anyway, how could I miss something I’ve never had?”---Louis is the frontman of an equal rights-movement, author of a book about beta-omega marriage and the struggles of being born and boxed into a personality you don't necessarily feel you fit. The notion that an omega must want to be with an alpha or else he or she's just settling for less, is bullshit.But, fucking hell.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All right, someone suggested I write a/b/o fic and I decided not to write it off before I'd had a look at what it really was. I read the primer and I realised how cool it is. 
> 
> I've made the society/world to fit the story and such, but I'm using all the core parts of the whole a/b/o-thing. Hope you like. :)

“So, if you had to boil it down, simple as you can, what is your mission?”

Louis chuckles. “Mission,” he echoes, “makes me sound like some sort of superhero.”

“Well, aren’t you?”

Louis pauses. “I’d like to think I’m someone to look up to.” Ellie leans back a little, smiling, and Louis realises he’s meant to speak again so he does. “As for my mission… well, the point of what I do is to spread awareness and kill off ignorance. To put it the simplest.”

Ellie nods, smiling as she scribbles on her notepad. “Kill off ignorance...”

“Well,” Louis grins, “I could’ve put it in more professional terms, but I think that might go against the first part of my mission; how am I meant to spread awareness to the general population if the general population can’t understand or relate to what the fuck I’m saying?”

Ellie clicks her pencil, then looks up, smiling. “I like that,” she says, “you make a good case for yourself.”

“Well, that is sort of my job, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so, yeah.”

She turns back to her notepad for a moment, scribbling again. Louis fights the urge to crane his neck and attempt at lopsided reading, and instead has another sip of the tea he made when she arrived at his flat, not twenty minutes ago. He picked their nicest mugs, the blue porcelain-ones they bought on their honeymoon in Paris, because if there’s one thing he knows about these kinds of at-home interviews it’s that every article starts with a neat little description of the interviewee’s home, and outfit. He’s wearing a nice white button-down and tight dark-blue denim jeans. He spent forty minutes on his hair.

It’s his job to make a good impression.

“So, Louis,” Ellie says after a while of cleaning up her notes, “your book-title.”

Louis leans back in his chair, smiling. “My book-title.”

“ _Hi, my name is omega, I’m Louis_. Simply put, what’s the thought behind it?”

“Hm, I don’t think it’s a difficult one to crack, but mainly it’s just… well, my entire life, as an omega - I’m sure you get this as a beta too - I’ve been asked, what are you? _What_ are you? Omega, beta, alpha, what can we label you as, what box can we fit you in so we can predetermine your personality before even talking to you? And, more importantly, who are you supposed to end up with, if you’ve not failed at life?” Louis says, “I’ve experienced it several times, getting asked _what_ I was before I’d even said my name. It seems as though me being an omega - or if I was a beta, or an alpha, it doesn’t matter - somehow reigns over any individual viewpoints, opinions, personality traits, even sexual attractions, that I might have.”

Ellie nods, eyes wide with interest, mouth a little slack. “Right, right, yes.”

“So,” Louis smiles at her, “that’s the thought behind my title. It’s a joke on the general consensus in society, that my breed is more prominent in me in every way, than my actual personality. Which is such an incredibly ignorant thing to think,” he adds, getting himself fired up a little, “I know Beta’s who are very assertive, who climb the corporal ladder like any alpha would, my own husband is that way. I know omega’s who shout and scream and wear the pants in their relationship, even when dating an alpha. I know alpha’s who are sweet and shy, even some who are stay-at-home dad’s and mum’s. It’s wrong to think that breed determines personality.”

Ellie, who’d been unthinkingly sucking at the back-end of her pen, takes it out of her mouth to say; “I can understand a long way down the road, Louis, I can, and I find your points very interesting. But I couldn’t help but latch onto something you said just before. You mentioned sexual attractions.”

And, here we go. “Yes,” Louis says, bracing himself.

“And, as far as personalities differing, I agree, I’m personally in a beta-beta relationship with my current boyfriend and we’re like night and day in many ways. But, when it comes to sexual attractions, realistically, can you really run from the fact that, as an omega, your biology wires you to want to be bred by an alpha? Are you claiming that that isn’t the case?”

Louis puts his tea down. “Of course I’m not,” he says, and that seems to relieve Ellie, like she’d been worried she were speaking to a madman for a second, “I go into heat like every other omega, I get - mind the language - slick when I’m horny like every other omega and, yes, I have attractions to alphas, like every other omega. That doesn’t mean I absolutely _must_ act on those attractions,” he explains, “I met my husband at an omega sanctuary when I was going through my very first heat and he was working as a care-taker, and we fell in love. The fact that he just so happens to be a beta doesn’t make a difference to me. I want him more than I’ll ever want any alpha, because he’s who he is as a person and that means more to me than anything else.”

Ellie nods, slowly. There’s a small crease between her brows and she looks as though she wants to say something, but can’t find the right way to phrase it. In the end she just bites her lip and looks back down at her notes. “Ehm,” she says, “sorry, I just have to collect my thoughts. Yes, all right, so, ehm… I wanted to ask you. You say that you want equality for omega-beta-relationships, compared to, say, alpha-omega or beta-beta, or even alpha-beta.”

“Yes.”

“What are some examples of things you’d like changed? I mean, just off the top of your head so I can get it down?”

Louis sighs. “Well,” he says, “while we do have the right to get married, it’s still somewhat frowned upon. My husband and I went to three different churches before we found someone willing to wed us. That should tell you something.” She nods. “And I know it has to do with the lackage of omega’s as opposed to beta’s and alpha’s, but when someone tells my husband that he’s _stolen good alpha-meat_ \- literally, someone said those exact words, that debreedinizes me. As if I’m just a piece of meat to be devoured by alpha’s, with no mind of my own. That’s just wrong, and flat-out _ignorant_.”

Ellie nods again.

“My husband continually gets asked, or warned, about me potentially leaving him for an alpha because, as an omega, I _must_ favour any alpha over him, even if I don’t even bloody like the alpha. That’s a problem.”

“Right.”

“I continually get asked what went wrong, since I ended up with a beta. I get comments like ‘well, you’re so handsome, you shouldn’t have to settle for him’, or I get looked down upon because I ‘couldn’t do better’. I even had a work colleague once, who’d met my husband twice, offer to set me up with her alpha brother. When I reminded her that I was taken, she chuckled and said ‘well, it doesn’t really count, does it?’. In my humble omega-opinion, that is not equality and that is not all right. We all deserve to be treated as worthy.”

Ellie grins a little, looking up from her notepad. “You’re quite the feisty omega.”

“I get that a lot.”

“I bet,” she says, and then bites at her lip again, eyes narrowing. Louis wants to tell her to just spit out what the fuck it is she wants to say, but he once had a journalist paint him as a complete imbecile in the article because he’d been offended by Louis’ un-omegalike directness. So, he keeps his mouth shut and, to his luck, she opens hers; “don’t you ever miss it, though?”

Louis frowns. “What?”

“Just, off the record,” she says, voice lower, eyes sharper, crook of her mouth quirking up a little, “don’t you ever miss it? A good knot? You must.”

Louis blinks and then swallows, thickly. “ _No_ ,” he exclaims, offended that she’d even ask, “I love my husband. And anyway, how could I miss something I’ve never had?”

 

*

  

“Well, thank you so much, Louis, this was incredibly interesting,” Ellie says ten minutes later as he’s showing her out, “you really are a one of a kind omega.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Louis says, because that statement sort of goes against the whole premise of his movement, “you’d be surprised.”

Soon as she’s out of the door, he pops two buttons on his shirt and toes off his shoes. He pads through the living-room, sticky feet clinging to the wooden floors, upstairs and then into the bedroom. Colin’s sitting on the little green sofa under the big window, laptop out, fingers clacking the keyboard with unsteady pauses.

“Journalist just left,” Louis says, gliding easily down across from him on the sofa, feet pressing up against the side of his thigh.

“Nice,” Colin mutters, “I’m just trying to formulate an e-mail to my superior. S’always a bloody nightmare, this. Don’t want to come off rude, but don’t want to come off like a push-over either.”

Louis sighs, raking his fingers through Colin’s short black hair. “You’ll be all right,” he says, “just be yourself and you’ll be fine.”

“You know it doesn’t work like that there,” he mutters, “I’m not Colin the beta. I’m beta the Colin.”

Louis can’t help a small chuckle. It’s funny, partially, because it’s true. When Louis first met Colin, at the omega sanctuary his parents shipped him off to at fifteen, ensuring he didn’t get knotted and, god forbid it, bonded to some older, abusive alpha, Colin’s main job was to change sheets, like, fucking _constantly_. Looking back at it, Louis can’t quite fathom how Colin managed to fall in love with someone who’s slick-drenched blankets he’d been carrying out of the room four times a day, but he did and Louis’ grateful.

Colin still changes sheets during Louis’ heats now, but that’s more his marital duty than his job. His job, on the other hand, which he fought, tooth and nail, to get, is at a large commercial firm. At some point, he reached so high up in the hierarchy, thanks to perseverance, skill and perhaps a bit of luck, that he’s now solely surrounded by alpha’s. Which means he has to work about three times as hard as everyone else to gain the same recognition.

And, he does. Every day.

“If they don’t see what an asset you are, then they’re fucking idiots,” Louis says, “you’ve put more time into that job than any of all those alpha-fuckheads put together.”

“That’s not true,” Colin mutters, but the crook of his mouth tugs up into a half-smile.

Louis presses the pad of his thumb into the faint crinkles by Colin’s eye. “She asked me if I ever missed it,” he says, “the journalist.”

“Missed what?”

“Getting knotted.”

Colin looks up from his screen. “Yeah?” he asks, still smiling, teasingly, but Louis sees a slight bit of something else, something anxious, behind it. He wishes, every time he looks at his husband, that there’ll be a day sometime soon where he doesn’t feel inferior to every alpha he meets.

“I told her I couldn’t miss something I’d never had,” Louis says, and can’t quite tell whether that’s good enough.

Colin doesn’t carry on the conversation, so Louis settles for telling himself that it is.

“Did it go well, otherwise?” Colin asks, putting the laptop away and crawling closer, over to lay between Louis’ legs, head rested on his chest.

“It was fine, yeah,” Louis murmurs, scratching at his scalp, “she was a nice girl.”

“Good.”

“Love how you’re always hiding in your room when I have people over to interview,” Louis says with a small chuckle, “you afraid of them or something?”

“Yes, I’m deathly allergic to journalists, didn’t I tell you?” Colin says. He nuzzles into Louis’ chest, right where his shirt’s been buttoned down, then says, “No, I just don’t want to be disruptive.”

“Yeah, I get it,” Louis murmurs, “I get it. Good thing she wasn’t an alpha, though. Could’ve snatched me right up and stolen me away.”

Colin bites his collarbone, gently, then gets off the sofa and hauls him up by the wrist. “C’mere, you fucking idiot,” he cackles against Louis’ lips, as they tumble toward the bed together, “you know, when I married an omega, I was expecting some kind little lamb to make me dinner every night.”

“Yeah?” Louis straddles him in bed, tugs off his own shirt and then works at Colin’s trousers. “How’d that work out for you?”

Colin moans softly, hips snapping up into Louis hands before he’s even got his dick out. “Not very well, I’m afraid,” he says, “got this violent fucking powerbottom instead. Think I might return him and ask for my money back.”

Louis slaps him over the cheek, gently, and then begins to rip off his own trousers before they get ruined by his slick, “love, you’re asking for a fucking spanking if you don’t shut the fuck up already.”

 

*

 

The following day, Louis does what he does on any regular Monday. He eats breakfast with Colin and Betty, sees Colin off to work, then packs his laptop and other necessities into his bag, puts Betty on a leash and leaves the house. The pastel-pink row house that Louis and Colin rent off Louis’ grandmother lies in an upper-class residential area, at least a thirty minute walk from Zayn, Liam and Niall’s flat.

So, Louis always gets the tube.

Colin once muttered something about not getting the tube alone in case he should be aroused and smell too tempting and be vulnerable to alpha’s, but Louis thought _well, I’m just as vulnerable whether you’re there or not, alpha’s like that aren’t threatened by you_. He didn’t say that aloud, of course, because Colin wouldn’t take it as matter-of-fact as Louis thought it. Instead he just replied _why the fuck would I ever get aroused if you weren’t around, love?_ That seemed to settle Colin’s worries.

There’s nothing to be worried about, anyway. Sure, he gets looks, he gets loads of looks, flared nostrils and the odd growl breathed into the nape of his neck when he’s crammed between too many people to see who did it. That’s the extent of it, though. Being an alpha makes you want to jump an omega’s bones on the tube, sure. Actually _doing_ it just makes you a fucking rapist.

Which most alpha’s don’t seem to be, luckily.

“That’s one of my biggest points, actually,” Louis tells Niall, catching him in the stairway of his building that morning, checking the post in nothing but his heart-patterned boxershorts, “we’re animals, yes, at our core. But we aren’t fucking dogs, we aren’t Betty, we have minds that we can use to control our bloody groins, or at least our limbs, and we have—”

“Yeah, you like that, don’t you, wuff wuff, yeah, you like that, grrr.”

Louis sighs, leaning back against the wall as Niall scratches and pets and coos and salivates all over his dog. Betty, the adorable pug he and Colin bought two years ago, still never fails to drag Niall to his knees. Louis once asked him why he didn’t just get one of his own and Niall had said _well, what’s the point of getting a dog that I have to feed and take out for shits and pisses all the time when I’ve got you coming over every day with one I can just have fun with?_ And Louis couldn’t really come up with a good counter-argument.

He does come here, pretty much every day. Lately, anyway.

When Louis met Niall, Zayn and Liam, and Niall and Zayn had explained to Louis, on his very first day of knowing the two beta’s, that they had an unobstructable life-plan, including becoming highly successful entrepreneurs and living in a pricey London bachelor-pad together, Louis had had his doubts. Hanging out in their pricey London bachelor-pad and listening to them run their highly successful online-business with steady hands, he scolds his younger self. Niall and Zayn are a prime example of two beta’s who went their own way, self-assured and determined, regardless of what was expected of their breed.

And then there’s Liam, a prime example of, well— individuality. A rare specimen, and one which no one’s ever written about before, at least not an entire book. Which is what makes it so bloody brilliant that he’s allowed Louis to write his next book about exactly him.  

“Liam’s home, yeah?” he asks, even though he knows the answer to it. Liam works nights at the hospital, and has just about the oddest sleep patterns Louis’ ever encountered. He tends to stay up once he gets off work in the small hours, and hang out with Louis, Niall and Zayn, help Louis with his book at the moment, and then sleep from afternoon to evening before he goes to work again.

He once admitted to Louis, drunkenly, that the reason he only works nights is that patients are less likely to make ignorant comments about him being a nurse instead of a doctor or a CEO or something grand and alpha-like, if they’re asleep.

Which Louis of course put in his notes for the book.

“Yeah, he’s making breakie,” Niall says, panting as he insists on carrying Betty in his arms instead of just letting her walk up the stairs.

There’s a lift in the building, but they hardly ever use it because Niall and the lot’s flat is on the first floor anyway. Louis reaches the door first, and Niall is saying something, but Betty keeps barking over him so Louis pretends he doesn’t hear because he smells bacon, over the smell of alpha.

“Bloody hell,” he still says, as he steps into the front hall, “Liam, did you forget to shower or something, you fucking stink of yourself.”

No one answers, even though Louis can hear the music streaming in the kitchen and bacon sizzling on the pan.

“Louis,” Niall says, panting as he reaches up to him and puts a squirming Betty down so she can run in and say hello to the other lads, “Louis, mate, I forgot to mention, we’ve got someone staying in our spare room.”

“Spare room? You don’t have a spare room.”

“Well, our loft space. Liam got it cleaned up during his break a few weeks ago, I never mentioned it. Anyway, we’ve got someone staying and you might want to—”

Louis stops dead in the kitchen-doorway.

There’s nothing unusual to see. Liam’s hovering over pans of eggs and beans and bacon, Betty’s jumping up and down his legs. Zayn’s sat across from him on a stool at the kitchen island, glasses on, talking on the phone and scrolling up and down his and Niall’s web-page. There’s nothing unusual to _see_.

But, fuck.

“What is that _smell_?” He knows what that smell is. He glares at Liam, heart picking up pace. “ _Liam_.”

Liam jumps a little, then turns, eyes wide. “Lou.”

“What have you done?” Louis asks, taking a breath to steady himself before he walks into the room, “you never smell this... _alpha_ , not after, what have you—”

“It’s not me,” Liam cuts through.

“What do you mean it’s not you, you’re the only one in here, you—”  

“Hi.”

Louis stiffens. The back of his neck goes hot, flushing down his spine and he has to take a second to adjust to the smell and not slick up like a fucking virgin in heat, before he turns. “Harry.”

“Hii,” Harry says again, smiling sweetly, like he doesn’t smell so fucking obscene Louis’ legs part just by instinct. “Long time, no see.”

No _scent_ , more like. It’s not that Louis doesn’t smell alpha’s every day of his life, but this particular flat is one of his ‘safe spaces’. Sure, Liam smells enough for Louis to know what he is, but no way near as strongly as before he had The Snip, and anyway, he was never _this_ bad. He was never Harry.

“Yeah,” Louis croaks out, forcing his legs together, “what the hell are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be shagging groupies in a bus midway through the US or something?”

Harry chuckles dryly, his abs moving with it, just a little. He’s not even had the decency to put on a shirt, or trackies. He’s just standing there, dopey and smiling, in red boxershorts and white socks, long greasy hair pulled up on a bun, and fuck he’s taller than he was last. Bigger. Louis can’t even fucking remember when ‘last’ was. Years, he thinks. “Tour ended a while ago,” he says hoarsely, “I’m gathering material for my next album at the moment. Needed a change of scenery.”

“And what that means is he’s eating our food even though he’s worth more than all of our lives put together, and sleeping on a springy mattress in our loft and playing horrible guitar all the bloody time,” Niall says. He’s jokey and grinning, but his gaze keeps flickering nervously back and forth between Harry and Louis like he’s afraid they’re going to jump each other in a second.

“Fucking hell,” Louis breathes, because he just can’t pretend to ignore the elephant in the room any longer, “you reek.”

Harry’s eyes widen a little, and then he bites into his lip, laughing. “Yeah,” he says like he knows it, “you do too. Could smell you from, like, two blocks down.”

“If it’s any consolation, I’ve got no nose for that alpha-omega shit, and I can smell him too, Lou,” Niall says, “he hasn’t showered since he got here.”

Harry chuckles, slapping Niall up the back of the head. “I was going to. Now, actually. I just wanted to, uhm,” he turns his gaze back to Louis, “say hi to Lou. It’s been bloody ages.”

“Hi,” Louis says, and then holds his breath when Harry comes in for a hug.

Then Harry says, “hi,” back, low and rough against his ear, and Louis makes the terrible mistake of breathing while he’s close, and then he feels it. It’s nothing, really, not enough that it’ll show, not enough that it won’t dry away by itself, it’s just the tiniest bit of slick, provoked by the smell of an alpha he hasn’t seen in ages coming up close.

It’s enough that Harry pulls back, abruptly, nostrils flared out, eyes rolling back in his head, hand swiping over his nose like he wants to cover it, but doesn’t want to seem rude.

“Sorry,” Louis mutters quietly, “it’s just my body, it’s not what I— it’s not my mind. Sorry.”

“Oh no, it’s cool, it’s cool, I just— got to adjust to the smell of, ehm… I’m just going to go shower now.”

Louis nods, burning up from embarrassment like he’s in fucking heat. Harry marches off, not stopping when Niall yells after him _mate, you forgot a towel, they’re in the cabinet in the hall!_ and locking himself in the bathroom.

Louis lets out shaky breath and turns back to the others. “So,” he says, “Harry’s here, then?”

“Mate, relax, you were never this way around me, even before The Snip,” Liam says. “You look like a tomato in heat.”

“Eew, why is that the most disgusting thing I’ve ever imagined? Tomato in heat,” Zayn groans.

“Because it is and you’re disgusting, Liam,” Louis says, “it’s not about you, or Harry, or anything. It’s just that, well— I haven’t been around a lot of alpha’s up close in a while - apart from you, but that’s not the same. Especially not in here, when I’m unprepared, because none of you fuckers bothered to warn me.”

Niall chuckles. “Sorry, mate, he texted me to pick him up from the airport yesterday and tricked me into letting him stay.”

“Really?”

“No, we wanted him to stay, he cooks and cleans and he’s kind of awesome.”

Louis pinches the bridge of his nose. “Christ, you don’t have to sell Harry to me, I know he’s bloody awesome, he was my friend for years before I even knew you guys, Harry in himself isn’t the issue. It’s just— my body. I can’t focus on writing when… but it’s all right. It’s all right. I just need to adjust to it and have a fag. I’ll have a fag.”

He steps out onto their balcony, picks a cigarette out on shaky fingers and revels in the first long drag. Once he’s finished it, though, and he steps back into the flat, he’s immediately slapped in the face with a viciously strong gust of Harry and he nearly slicks right up again.

 _Fuck_ , this is going to take some getting used to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> debreedinizes = dehumanizes (I don't know what the fuck I'm doing :')


	2. Chapter 2

Sitting in the livingroom for just over half an hour seems to do it. Or, well, at least get him used enough to the scent of Harry in the flat that he can control his body’s fluid-spewing. After his shower, Harry walks back through the livingroom with an awkward smile and wave, and Louis reciprocates it and then pretends to be busy getting his laptop started.

Liam’s splayed out across from him on a couch, eating his breakfast while staring zombie-style into thin air. Niall and Zayn are up at the kitchen island still, making enough noise to make up for everyone else’s quietness.

“Don’t know if you can use this, but I had an experience the other night,” Liam says at some point, as if Louis isn’t busy staring at his startpage and trying to manipulate his mind, body and soul into not reacting to the fact that Harry - and the scent that surrounds him - has just sauntered back into the room. “Something “ignorant” a patient said.”

Louis rides out the brief flush of heat waving through his body and clears his throat. “Liam, you know you don’t have to use air quotes every single time you say the word ‘ignorant’.”

“I agree,” Harry says, suddenly deciding to join. He plops down right between them, on the middle couch, plate of eggs and bacon in his lap. “Kind of defeats the purpose of using the word if you can’t say it without making a mockery of it.” He slings his big feet up on the coffee-table and makes eyes at Louis, and then Liam, “some might even call _you_ ignorant.”

Liam makes an exhausted noise and waves his hand out at Harry like he can’t deal with him right now.

Louis wants to do the same, but can’t really, because he’s stuck staring at his computer-screen, slowly taking in little puffs of air through his nose, fighting to adjust. He doesn’t know what’s gotten into him. He doesn’t know whether Harry can see it on him, smell it, maybe. Part of him wants Harry to be able to, just so he knows that Louis isn’t purposely trying to be rude and act as if they don’t have, like, _years_ of catching up to do. Another part just wants to crawl into a cold, cold hole and hide until this terrible biological fucking _defect_ inside him lets up.

“Anyway,” Liam says suddenly, like he’d slipped into open-eyed sleep for a moment and just snapped himself back awake, “I was seeing to this patient of mine. An alpha.”

“Those are the worst,” Harry mutters around a mouthful of food.

Louis peeks an eye at him. He’s put on trackies now, black ones, and a red t-shirt. His hair’s damp, beginning to curl around his pale collarbones. His cheeks look flushed, blotchy and that particular shade of red he always used to get after they’d watched porn together as kids. Maybe he’s had a wank in the shower. Maybe because of—

“Louis? Are you even listening or writing any of this down?”

Louis snaps to attention, turning back to Liam, who’s already staring at him. He taps himself into a word-sheet and nods. “Yes, of course I am, go on. We want the book to have as many real-life experiences in it as possible. Where were you?”

“I was at the hospital,” Liam says, misunderstanding the question. Louis ignores Harry’s little shift, even though he knows if he looked up he’d find Harry fighting a grin, and he’d end up laughing too. He and Harry haven’t been close friends in more than a decade, hell, Louis doesn’t even think they’ve qualified as much more than glorified acquaintances in years, but that doesn’t change the facts. They do have the same sense of humour.

“You were at the hospital,” Louis says, tapping at his space-button a few times to make Liam feel like he’s being taken seriously.

“Yes,” Liam says, smacking his lips, “and I was seeing to this patient. An alpha-male, who’d had his penis broken during sex.”

Louis cringes. Harry does too, out loud. “Fucking hell, _how_?”

“No idea, but it happens, you know.”

“I don’t _want_ to know…” Harry groans.

Louis sighs. “And then what?”

“Then we got chatting. And somehow, I ended up telling him I’d had The Snip. His eyes went, like, tea cup-size,” Liam says, “he beckoned me close to him and then he informed me that I’d made the biggest mistake of my life. That, for the one week he hadn’t been able to perform in bed, he’d lost his girlfriend, his confidence and, yes, his sense of self-worth. He’d lost his penis, his alphahood.”

“Bloody hell.”

“Dramatic sod.”

“Yeah,” Liam says, “anyway, I reminded him that I’d had The Snip and that I was doing just fine. He reminded me that I was only kidding myself. He said, the one thing all alpha’s know and agree on, but won’t ever let the omega’s or beta’s know, is that all they’re good for are their cocks. That, without those massive knot-rods, we have nothing. Our existence is… useless.”

The silence that follows seems to stretch on for ages.

Slowly, Louis looks up from the laptop he hasn’t yet written anything new down on. Liam’s staring into thin air again, gnawing at a slice of bacon. Harry’s staring at Liam, traumatized.

“That’s bullshit,” Louis says then, without much pre-thought, “that’s fucking bullshit, an alpha without his massive knot-rod is just a beta. And betas aren’t useless. Look at those two idiots.” He nods toward the kitchen-island, where Zayn’s still on the phone and Niall is tapping away on his laptop, glasses on and everything. “They’re doing quite all right for themselves.”

Harry watches them for a moment, then turns back to Liam and asks; “but, like, can you even use your dick at all?”

Louis sighs exasperatedly.

“Yeah, I mean— yeah, I can use it,” Liam says, hesitantly, “I mean, it isn’t like it was before. I have to be kind of… well, I do take these little blue pills beforehand. Just to make sure I can maintain my hard-on. Whenever I do have sex.”

“Which is never,” Louis adds, and Harry laughs, but only until he realises Liam isn’t going to object to it.

“Contrary to popular belief,” Liam says, “all alpha’s don’t need, nor want, to stick their dick in every slick hole that presents itself. All The Snip did was help me remind my body what my mind wanted.” He looks over at Harry, who’s been awfully quiet for a while, “don’t you get that ever, Haz? You must. Where someone’s all… smelling so good it’s ridiculous, and your dick’s just ready to pounce, but your mind isn’t even that into the person. And afterwards you just feel kind of…”

“Dirty,” Harry mutters.

“Well, I was going to say weak, but yeah, that works too.”

Harry nips a last slice of bacon off his plate, pops it in his mouth and puts the plate down on the coffee-table. He slings his long legs up on the couch, folds his arms up behind his head and looks Liam over.

“But, like,” he drawls, “you say you felt weak giving into your body back in the day.”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t you ever feel weak knowing you have to take those little blue pills if you want to show someone a good time? I mean… don’t you ever wish you could just, like, seize the moment and take some girl just because you wanted her right then, right there?”

Louis looks up again. “Not every _single_ person, alpha or not, wants loads of random spur-of-the-moment sex with people they don’t know.”

Harry stretches his neck back to look at him. “I know that,” he says, and almost looks semi-offended, “I don’t have loads of random sex with people I don’t know either. I was just asking a simple question out of curiosity. Doesn’t he miss just fucking his girlfriend, spur of the moment, unplanned, once in a while?”

And— maybe Louis’ making things up, maybe he’s going into early heat or something, but he could’ve sworn Harry put extra pressure on ‘fucking’, spat the ’F’ out of those obscenely red lips like he wanted to spark a reaction in Louis.

No, he’s probably making things up. He turns back to his laptop.

“I don’t miss it, no,” Liam says, “but like Louis said, I rarely ever have sex at all. I was never much of a… I never lived up to the conventional idea of what a good alpha’s supposed to be.”

There’s a small silence.

Then Harry gets up. “That’s fair,” he says, and sounds like means it, just before he gives Liam a friendly slap on the shoulder; “it’s really cool that you, like, aren’t afraid to be open about it. I respect that.”

“Thanks, mate.”

“I’m gonna let you two get some work done. Thanks for breakfast, Li, it was delicious, let me get the dishes.”

When he’s gone with the plates, Liam turns to Louis and asks; “did you get any of that down or were you too busy inhaling the scent of Harry’s balls?”

“Fuck off,” Louis says. He puffs a sharp breath of air out through his nose, readjusts himself and then mutters, “on an unrelated note, could you just re-tell that whole hospital-story again? Didn’t get a word of it down.”

 

*

 

He and Liam get about half a page of random nonsensical notes down, then play videogames for five hours straight. Harry doesn’t join them again, and seems to have left the flat altogether, because he isn’t anywhere to be seen when Louis leashes Betty up in the afternoon.

“See you tomorrow, mate,” Niall calls out, and Louis throws a lazy wave over his shoulder before the door slams closed behind him.

His jeans cling to his thighs, t-shirt damp under his arms and down his back. He wants to go straight home and take a cold, cold shower, but he needs to pick up groceries because it’s his turn to make dinner tonight and Colin’s going to kill him if he lazies out and makes the same mozzarella-stuffed parmaham-chicken and mash that he always does. They need something different. Something meaty, maybe. I big fat chewy meat-steak with—

He smells it just before he sees it.

He’s just stepped out of the building when Harry’s stepping out of his car, right across from him. It’s not the Porsche he used to flash around London back in the day. He’s grown out of that, apparently. Now, it’s an SUV. A big black one, high above ground, massive as it stands beside Niall’s little green hatchback.

Harry’s in a pair of black jeans now, faded at the knees, leather-skin boots and the same red t-shirt as before. His hair’s air-dried freely, curly and thick and sideswept. He looks so sexy Louis thinks it best for both their own goods to pretend he hasn’t seen him and turn the other way.

But, of course; “oi! Lou-eh! Louis, mate!”

Louis sighs and Betty starts to bark at Harry, jump crazily around Louis’  legs and then up and down Harry’s when he comes close enough. “Hey,” Louis says, not really meeting Harry’s eye, “I was just leaving.”

“Oh. Where to?”

“Just home.”

Harry nods, thumbs in his pockets, eyes doing a quick up-and-down scan of Louis’ entire stature. “You drive here?”

“No, I took the tube,” Louis makes the stupid mistake of saying.

“Oh,” Harry says, “well, I was just— coming back from a friends, but, don’t you like— let me ride you. Give you a ride.” He coughs.

Louis glances up at him. He’s chewing gum. He still fucking stinks of himself. “It’s all right, Betty needs the exercise,” Louis says, and knows full well that his expression doesn’t match the casual way of his words. He hopes his eyes convey just how much he doesn’t want to be crammed into a car with Harry and his scent right now. He needs a couple more days, at least, before his body finally accepts it isn’t going to get what it automatically screams for at the smell of Harry. Then they’ll be all right.

“No, that’s not trueee,” Harry sings, and then crouches down to scratch Betty behind the ears, “you don’t need the exercise, do you, girl? You’re beautiful just as you are, aren’t you, nice and thick.” He growls at her, and it’s only meant to be playful, but Louis has to stumble back two steps at the sound. He knows Harry growls, sometimes, when he gets really into it with people. He knows, because Harry isn’t shy about sex, and the girlfriend he brought on a camping-trip with all the lads many years back wasn’t either.

Betty gets worked up, jumping at Harry for more scratches, more love and affection, and Harry fucking growls at her again and—

“Okay, yeah,” Louis blurts, just to get Harry to stop making those sounds because he’s seconds from embarrassing himself again. “Yeah, thank you, that’d be nice. The lift. If you wanted.”

Harry looks up at him, frowning for a second, because Louis probably both looks and sounds like a blubbering idiot. Then a wide, white smile spreads across his face, and he looks like the eleven-year-old who stole Louis’ skateboard at the park just to get to talk to him, for a second. “Great.”

“Great. Yeah. That’s—”

“Let’s go, then.”

“Yeah.”

The insides of Harry’s car are what Louis expected; clean black leather-seats, all surfaces neat safe for an abundance of gum-packets and wrappers strewn around the dash. He’s got about seven little trees hanging from his rearview mirror, and gives Louis three pieces of strong peppermint-gum to chew, but it still doesn’t quite cover the smell of him, once they’ve got the doors closed around them.

Louis survives it, only by focusing all his energy onto the unruly pug writhing around in his lap.

After a while, though, Harry stops being content with sitting in silence or commenting on the dog. He asks about Louis’ work, sounding nice and interested, but, however far apart they’ve drifted since they were kids, Louis knows Harry well enough to know that he’s excellent at feigning enthusiasm. It’s sort of a core part of being hopelessly effortlessly charismatic always; being able to fake it, once in a while.

So, Louis keeps his answers short and sweet, banters himself into talking about Harry instead.

Tour was brilliant, obviously, like tour is. Tour was stressful too, and once it ended, Harry couldn’t quite manage to get comfortable in his massive luxury L.A.-mansion.

“Fuck, I sound like an ungrateful little bitch,” Harry says, laughing at himself.

“Hey, you said it, not me.”

“I didn’t, like— it wasn’t meant like that,” Harry says, just before Louis directs him to pull up to the curb because they’ve reached their destination. “I was just… lonely, I guess. In a way.”

When Louis realises he isn’t being let go just because they’ve stopped driving, he slumps into his seat and scratches Betty into relaxation. “Lonely? Harry Styles of White Eskimo? How could you ever be lonely unless you wanted to be?”

Harry sighs. “Maybe I wanted to be.”

Louis looks him over. “Yeah?”

“During tour you’re like… constantly surrounded by people. But you’re never—” he cuts himself off, shakes his head, “you don’t want to hear that depressive shit.”

“Hey, you can talk to me,” Louis says, and it feels awkward before it’s even fully left his lips. Sounds like something Miley Cyrus’ dad would tell her three thirds into a Hannah Montana-episode, it sounds cliche and disingenuous. It definitely _doesn’t_ sound like something an estranged childhood friend you only see when your mutual friends force you to, says.

The strained smile on Harry’s face tells Louis he agrees. “It’s okay,” he says, “anyway, I was planning to spend time with Kenny after not seeing her much at all through tour. But after, like, three weeks together we both realised the only thing that’d kept us together for so long was the fact that we _weren’t_ together,” he gives a dry chuckle, “pathetic, innit?”

“No,” Louis says, just because, “Kenny, that’s—”

“Kendall. You met her at the— oh no, you didn’t go to that, did you? Zayn and Niall’s launch thing.”

“Oh. No, I was home with—” heat. He was writhing around in bed, making Colin’s life a living nightmare, hot and slick and begging to be fucked, but then nearly crying when Colin fucked him and it just wasn’t fucking— enough. “A horrible flu. Was gutted not to go, though.”

“Nah, you didn’t miss out on much,” Harry says, “unless you enjoy watching the functions of various insane sextoys get demonstrated on a life-size sex-doll.”

“Fuckin’ hell, I’d have loved to be there.”

“Yeah, it was awesome.”

Louis barks a laugh, setting Harry off too. Once it’s faded, Louis realises Harry isn’t going to speak, so he picks up where he thinks they left it; “so, you and Kendall. I’m sorry to hear it didn’t work out.”

“No, it’s all right. Think she’s already got a new bloke, actually. Wouldn’t be surprised if there was an overlap. Things were dead long before they properly ended.”

“Hm,” Louis hums, “still, I’m sorry. Just, that you had a relationship end.”

Harry smiles. “That’s nice of you.”

An awkward silence begins to creep up on them, but, for some inexplicable reason, instead of using that as his out and saying thanks for the lift and goodbye for today, Louis asks; “so, what, were any of your songs about her? Kendall?”

Harry frowns, and Louis does too, on the inside. On the outside too, probably. He doesn’t _not_ want to know whether any of the songs were about Kendall, but it’s embarrassingly obvious that he doesn’t _want_ to know either. It’s embarrassingly obvious that he was just grasping at straws, trying to keep the conversation going.

Harry’s nice about it, though. “Yeah,” he says, “a couple had, like— elements of her in them. But ‘Only Angel’ was pretty much solely about her.”

Louis nods. Then realises he’s supposed to say something. “Oh. That’s the one that, ehm… the one with the dining-table and—”

“No, that’s ‘From the dining-table’.”

“Oh. Oh, so it’s the one with, ehm… with the ghosts. The two ghosts and red lips and—”

“No,” Harry chuckles, “no, that’s ’Two Ghosts’.”

“Oh.”

A full three seconds pass where they just stare at each other, smiling weirdly, unblinking. The awkward silence feels palpable.

When they finally break it, they of fucking _course_  break it at the exact same time.

“I can play it for you—”

“Have you got anywhere I can toss my gum—”

They’re silent again.

“Ehm,” Louis says, “yeah. Yeah, play it for me, I’d love to hear. What, have you got it—”

Harry nods, pulling his phone out. “Got the phone set up with the, uhm… there. There we go.”

He taps his phone and the angelic sounds of a quire fill the car. A woman says a few words about angels or something, and Louis fights not to grimace.

Then, suddenly, it’s cancelled out by a rocky tune and Harry’s voice, hoarse and barky.

“Oh,” Louis says, breaking into an involuntary smile and beginning to nod his head, “yeah. I like it.”

Harry smiles, grateful and genuine too, and they sit for a moment, just listening.

Louis bops Betty in his lap in tune to the music, not really listening to the lyrics, but just enjoying the sounds of it, the tune and Harry sexy voice. Harry’s voice.

And then suddenly, a big hand slips in under his chin. “Hey,” Harry says, “just give it to me.”

Louis frowns up at him.

“Your gum. Just give it to me.”

“Oh.”

Without thinking, Louis spits his gum out into Harry’s cupped hand. It’s disgusting, and even more so, when Harry takes his hand right back and pops the gum into his own mouth. Louis’ mouth falls slack, and the chorus comes on again, and Harry grins at him lopsidedly, chews away and waggles his brows at him and fuck—

The back of his pants dampen up again. Not enough to soak the seat, but definitely more than earlier.

He’s staring at Harry, expecting to see a reaction worse than the one he had before, but Harry isn’t looking at him anymore. He’s looking at his phone, texting someone, poor jaw working overtime at the immense amounts of gum he’s stuffed in his gob, and fuck, Louis’ getting slicker.

Harry smells. He really fucking stinks. _So_ good.

“Anyway, I should go,” Louis says.

Harry pauses the music. “What?”

“I should go. Thanks for driving me.”

Harry nods, but doesn’t say anything. That’s when Louis makes the terrible mistake of looking him straight in the face. He’s smelled it. He’s definitely smelled it. His nostrils are flared, mouth a tight line, pupils shot. The hand he had slouched lazily around the wheel before’s gone rigid, tense and twitching, knuckles white.

“Fuck,” Louis blurts.

He turns to open the car-door, but that’s when Harry reaches across to him at record-speed and grabs his arm, hard enough to hurt.

“Wha’?” Louis breathes, forcing himself to look at him. He knows what. They both know what. Fuck, the sudden skin-on-skin’s killing him, the much too hard grip Harry’s got on his arm still, the way it seems beyond his control.

“If—” Harry’s voice cracks, and he licks over his lips, “if, uhm… I can fuck you. I will fuck you. In the backseats, I’ll fuck you now, just quick, if. If you— are you in an open sort of—”

Oh god. “No,” Louis manages to say, “no, I’m, we’re— no, that’s not what… we’re closed. We’re married, we’re, no.”

For a second, Harry looks like he’s going to argue Louis on it, going to scream at him or just grab him round the waist and throw him facedown into the back of the car. A whiny noise he didn’t know he could make escapes Louis’ lips at the thought of it.

Then Harry lets him go. “Fuck,” he says, “fuck, sorry, it’s just, you smell— fuck, get out. You should get out, this is really—”

“Yeah,” Louis breathes, hands shaky and moist as he fumbles with the door, “fuck. Bye, thanks for the lift.”

“Yeah, I— fuck, you’ve got it on the seat, it’s—”

Louis stops to look at it, and he can’t see anything, but Harry can probably sense these things better than him, since he’s wired to. “Sorry,” he says, fighting to keep Betty from jumping out of his arms, “sorry, I, d’you need me to—”

“No, don’t apologise, just— fuck, just. Lou, are you sure you don’t want me to fuck you? I’ll— shit, what am I saying? No, get— I’ll see you. Bye. Sorry. Bye.”

Harry reaches across and slams the door shut, then drives off in a haste.

 

*

 

Ten minutes and many, many deep breaths later, Louis locks himself into his house. The first thing he does is shower, scrub himself down, fight the burning urge to fingerfuck himself, and then wank quickly, just to keep his balls from exploding. Fuck, it’s times like these he wishes there were a version of The Snip made for omega’s.

When Colin arrives home from work a few hours later, though, he’s put himself back together. He’s been grocery shopping, he’s cooked dinner, hell, he’s even set the table.

“God, I love you,” Colin says as he takes a seat across from Louis, “smells incredible, darling.”

“Please don’t say ‘smells’,” Louis groans.

Colin chuckles, sliding a foot across the floor to hook round the back of Louis’ ankle. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, I just—” he glances up and Colin just smiles at him, tired from work, but open and willing to listen, lovely as he is, “Harry’s staying at Niall and the lot’s. At their flat. Harry Styles.”

“The one from that band?”

“Yeah, he— he’s on hiatus or just inbetween tours or something, I’m not certain. Anyway, he fucking smells. He’s an alpha, I don’t know whether you know.”

“I assumed.”

Louis looks up at him again. “What do you mean?”

Colin shrugs a shoulder. “He just looks... I don’t know. His nostrils, his eyebrows. I don’t know. He looks alpha. Besides, most lead-singers in massively successful bands tend to be.”

“Aw.” Louis reaches a hand across the table to squeeze his husband’s hand, “not _every_ successful person needs to be alpha, babe. Look at me, for instance.”

Colin squeezes back. “I didn’t mean it in a self-pitying way, don’t worry. How does he smell anyway?”

“Like… I can’t explain it.”

Colin gives a soft smile. “Try.”

“Ehm,” Louis sighs, “it’s sort of like… all right, imagine you’re watching a movie with your parents. And it’s a good movie and everything, but suddenly, the hottest sex scene you can possibly imagine comes on. And you don’t want to get hard, you really, _really_ , have zero desire to get hard or sexual right then, but you just can’t control it because your body is wired to like what you see,” he explains, “it’s sort of like that. Only for noses.”

“Only for noses,” Colin chuckles, “but… can’t he smell it too, though? If you slick up? Did you?”

Louis bites his lip. Colin isn’t the jealous type at all, hasn’t ever been, hasn’t ever had any reason to be either, but that doesn’t mean Louis ever wants to risk making him feel insecure, or lesser than. Then again, they’ve always been about honesty before anything else.

“Yeah, I did, actually,” he says, and quickly tacks on, “was out of my control.”

“Could he smell it?”

Louis groans. “Yeah,” he says, “he could and he commented and— fuck, I hope he isn’t going to stay there for long. It’s too humiliating.”

“Relax. I’m sure he’s experienced it before, he’s a grown alpha, and a hot and famous one at that. It’s impossible he doesn’t know the effect he has on people.”

Louis fiddles with Colin’s wedding ring. “You think he’s hot?”

“Yeah,” Colin says, and when Louis’ gaze snaps up, he laughs, “babe, you do too, don’t lie to yourself. Fit people don’t stop being fit just cause we’re married.”

“Right.” Louis bites his lip again for a moment, then realises there’s no reason to be withholding information, “he gave me a lift home anyway. And, we were confined together in a small space and, like… like I said, I’m wired, bodily, to find him attractive and…”

“Yeah?”

“And I got slick, for the second time that day,” Louis says, failing as he tries not to cringe at himself, “and then Harry asked me if I wanted to get fucked.”

Colin’s eyes go wider, his grin too. “He did? How?”

“Well, he— he could smell my slick and, well... you know, he’s wired to want to fuck me at the smell of it. So… he got all… alpha and grabbed my arm, like—”

“He grabbed your arm?”

“Don’t look so excited, it’s your _husband_ talking.”

Colin laughs. “Sorry,” he fakes an angry frown, “he _grabbed_ your arm?!”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Anyway, he grabbed my arm and asked if he could fuck me in the back-seats quickly.”

“Does he not know you’re married?”

“Yes, he knows. He asked if we were open.”

“What, like—”

“Like, allowed to fuck other people. Outside of…”

“Ah.” Louis looks up again and Colin’s just nodding, smiling lopsidedly.

For a moment, they just sit, in silence, like that. Louis can’t quite figure Colin’s expression out, which is a rarity, but it definitely isn’t angry, or hurt. Or negative at all.

In the end, Colin smacks his lips and smiles and says; “imagine if we _had_ been open. You’d have gotten alpha-fucked in the backseat of Harry Styles’ car.”

“I don’t want to get fucking alpha-fucked, regardless,” Louis says, “I want to get fucked by my husband and nobody else. End of. Let’s eat.”

Colin chuckles. “I’d have had to take care of you, after,” he says, “this omega-secretary at my office got knotted by one of the partners, this _huge_ alpha. Didn’t come into work for two days and when he did, he still had a bit of a limp.”

“Oh, please, you’re exaggerating,” Louis huffs, “and stop talking about it, you’ve got crazy eyes right now, I don’t know why this fascinates you so much.”

“Doesn’t _fascinate_ me,” Colin says, finally moving to take some of the food Louis’ prepared for them. “Just… ridiculous to consider,” he mutters, “how much you’d have humiliated me, I suppose. If you’d been fucked by some much bigger guy and I’d have had to fuss around you after, like some sort of pathetic servant.”

Louis drops his spoon with a clonk. “Darling, is this you being passive-aggressive right now? Because if it is, cut it out. You’re shit at it.”

“Sorry,” Colin chuckles, “I’m just teasing you, never mind.”

“Besides, if you want me to limp so badly, you can strap on your alpha-dildo and fuck me with that tonight.”

“You read my mind, love.”


	3. Chapter 3

Tuesday, Louis has a few meetings and errands to run, enough that it excuses not popping by Niall and the lot’s flat. Wednesday, he decides to do a full house-cleaning to preoccupy himself in a useful way and ends up watching three seasons of Prison Break instead. Thursday, Niall texts him _r u dead_ , and Betty seems to be so out of it from not seeing the lot that Louis takes pity on her and pulls himself together.

“Bloody hell,” Niall says when Louis and Betty arrive at their flat, “was one day from calling Colin and asking if you’d left me anything in the will.”

Louis begins to respond, but Niall’s already dropped to his knees, attacking Betty with cuddles. Louis inches around them and continues, carefully, into the kitchen. He can smell that Harry’s here, but is relieved to find that a) he isn’t in this particular room, and b) his smell doesn’t hit quite as hard as it did the first time. He’s getting better, then. All right.

“There you are,” Zayn mutters, not looking up from his laptop, “done avoiding Harry, then?”

“Avoiding me?” Harry drawls, padding into the room and stinking it up.

Fuck. Louis stumbles backwards a few steps. “Oh, hey. No, what? Who?”

“Me,” Harry says, lazy smile spread over his lips, “you’ve been avoiding me?”

He’s in a pair of boxers and nothing else, the usual at-home attire. His hair’s up in a bun. There’s a hickey on his throat, and another at his collarbone. “No,” Louis says, “you fallen down the ladder to your room or summat?” he asks, and when Harry frowns, nods at the bruises on his skin.

He glances down, then looks up again, smirking. “Why? You jealous?”

“He’s married,” Liam cuts in rather unenthusiastically, walking through from his bedroom, “and also, Harry, next time you bring someone home, would you please tell them to take their dirty trainers off before they mud up the floors I _just_ mopped?”

“I’m soorry,” Harry grins, eyes still trained on Louis’, “think he was a bit distracted.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Thought you said you didn’t have random sex with people you didn’t know.”

“Said I didn’t have _loads_ ,” Harry corrects, “and besides, who says he was a random? Could be my next big love.”

“Oh, please,” Liam scoffs, “you pulled him home from some seedy club and nailed him in the hall.”

“Which was properly annoying because you were banging my bedroom door-in,” Zayn adds, “good thing it only lasted, like, two minutes.”

Harry throws his hands out at both of them. “Okay, okay, we get it,” he exclaims, half-irritated, but still unable to stop smiling fully, “I fucked a random. It happens.”

“You didn’t knot him, did you?”

“No, I’d never knot a random one-night-stand, are you insane?”

“Mate, you _just_ said he might be your next big love,” Louis notes.

Harry looks up. “Oh,” he says, grinning coyly, “yeah. Woops.”

Louis rolls his eyes and then leaves the conversation, mostly because spending prolonged amounts of time this close to Harry still gets him just a bit hotter than what’s tolerable. He plants himself in one of the couches, and Betty comes running after him, jumping into his lap. The telly is on, an old episode of The Office, and Louis watches with mild interest while he scratches Betty and tries to keep her from trampling all over his balls.

Then Harry plops right down in the couch beside him. “Tea?” he asks, placing a mug on the coffee table in front of Louis before getting an answer.

“Cheers, mate,” Louis says quietly, looking up for a second and then cutting his gaze away. He picks his mug up and has a sip, and yeah. Harry did always make the best tea.

They sit silently for a moment, watching telly and sipping. Then Betty gets bored and leaves Louis’ lap in favour of following Niall around while he makes himself breakfast and sings joyously, and Harry takes that as his cue to start up conversation.

“So, how’s it going anyway?”

Louis glances at him. “Fine,” he says slowly, “you?”

“Fine too, I uhm,” he says, and then stops, fully, as if that constitutes an acceptable sentence.

Louis raises his brows at him.

“Uuhm,” Harry says again, dragged-out, like trying to buy himself time, “uhm, okay, I was just— uhm.”

“What? Bloody hell, aren’t you people meant to be assertive and confident or something?”

“ _You people_?” Harry exclaims, eyes widening along with his mouth, “you can’t say that.”

“I can say what I want.”

“Yeah, but— doesn’t saying stuff like that go against your whole, like… deal?”

Louis frown-grins at him. “My whole, like, _deal_?”

“Yeah, like—” Harry waves his tea-cup around confusedly, nearly spilling several times, “like, uhm… your whole equality and individuality-movement and all of that… jazz?”

Louis narrows his eyes at him. “All of that jazz?” he echoes, slightly offended, “it’s not some _jazz_ , it’s important, it’s a serious societal issue. We’re being boxed into categories with certain traits and expectations before we’re even old enough to understand what they mean, and we don’t get to choose it ourselves, we don’t get to love who we love without being silently judged if we choose ‘wrong’, sometimes even loudly, we—”

“I get that,” Harry cuts through, and his voice is so sharp suddenly, that Louis’ mouth snaps right shut. “I get that, Louis, but parts of us are just inherent, they’re just, like— it’s not an excuse for acting like a dick, but it’s my only explanation, I think, and I—” he catches his breath, then meets Louis’ eyes, “I just wanted to say that I was sorry. For what I said in the car the other day. That was way out of line.”  

Louis nods, gaze caught in his tea. “It’s all right. I mean— you weren’t _trying_ to be inappropriate.”

Harry doesn’t say anything back, but Louis senses that he’s nodding. He doesn’t check to see.

They turn back to the telly, sipping their teas.

After a while, of course, Harry drawls out; “I’m sorry if I offended your husband too, by the way. Don’t know if you told him. Didn’t mean to assume you guys were, like— open.”

Louis glances back at him. “What, because he’s a beta?” he asks. He hadn’t considered that possibility before, but suddenly he does, and if that _is_ the case, it’s a bit fucking offensive. “Was the reason you thought we were open was because he’s not alpha? Harry?”

“Uhm,” Harry croaks out, and the look in his eyes say everything, just before he blinks it away. “No,” he exclaims, breathy, “no, of course not. I was just, ehm… trying my luck, I guess. But I’m sorry.”

“Good,” Louis says sharply, straightening up in his seat, “and yes, I did tell him what you’d said.”

“Was he angry? Fuck, do I have to, like— apologise or something, I didn’t mean to try and take another man’s—”

“Property?” Louis cuts through, and Harry frowns at him.

“No,” he says, “another man’s man. I didn’t mean to try and do that. If you were mine and someone had tried to fuck you in the backseat of his car, I’d have wanted to fucking kill that guy.”

“Oh,” Louis says, mouth gone a bit dry. “Well.”

“Hypothetically,” Harry adds belatedly, “just, hypothetically, if you were. I just mean that, that like, I can understand if he’s angry with me.  And I’m sorry.”

Louis nods, a little frantically, and nearly tips his tea over the edge of his mug. “It’s fine,” he says, just because his head’s a bit fuzzy suddenly, and he needs this conversation to end, “it’s fine, it’s all right. Colin isn’t the jealous type, and you did ask if we were open so… so you weren’t disrespecting anyone, really. He doesn’t mind, anyway.”

“Ah,” Harry says, nodding and fish-mouthing, turning back to the telly, “bigger man than I, then.”

“Hm.”

 

*

 

It seems Harry’s decided to stay put, for once in his life. At least for longer than Louis first expected. Articles fluctuate online, about him being back in England, the odd picture of him on a run or out on the town, but everything’s vague, no one seems to know exactly where he’s residing. Which is probably why he stays.

People pop by now and then, hang out with him in the loft, playing indie music and smoking weed, scribbling lyrics down that Louis couldn’t understand if he had any desire to try, and Louis bumps into a few girls and boys, leaving the flat with rosy cheeks and last night’s clothes on. He even finds Caroline Flack in the kitchen one morning, clad in one of Harry’s button-downs and nothing else, eating toast with Niall. She pets Betty happily, and leaves before Harry’s even awake yet. When Louis asks about her later on, Harry just grins and says _yeah, she’s always a good laugh_.

The lads love to have him, because, as Niall puts it _he might stink of sweat and sex, but he picks my fuckin’ laundry off the floor and washes it for me without even asking and the ingrown mountain of dishes in the kitchen seems to have evaporated into thin air after he came round_. _Also, he makes Liam less naggy about being the only one who ever cleans_. And, as Zayn puts it _I don’t care either way and he’s cool_ , and Liam; _it’s the first time in years I’ve actually seen the kitchen counter. It’s white, did you know?_

And, well, Louis doesn’t _hate_ seeing Harry a couple times a week. It’s all right, once they both adjust to the smell of each other, at least enough not to set their body’s into shock-states every time the other walks into the room. Louis gets used to seeing him. Betty does too, because he plays with her so much she’s grown accustomed to it and Louis _has_ to go by the lad’s flat just to please her, even if he isn’t in the mood.

Louis gets used to having Harry back as a regular part of the cast in his life. So much so, that he can’t quite remember why they grew apart in the first place.

“You took a piss on meee,” Harry sings one early noon, plinging on his guitar, “I met you and I said, baby, please put it on meeee,” he does a howl-like _uuh-ooh_ , “but then you took a piss on meee. And baby, it was kind of sort of a bit kinkyyy... and maybe even relatively sexyyyy… but, babe, you took a piss on mee... and now I’ve gotta set you free… because you took a—” he stops playing at once, groaning and tapping the little notepad he’s got rested on his knee, “and then I don’t know what to sing next.”

“Hm... how about… ‘piss on me’?” Louis suggests, from where he’s lying on the couch across from Harry, feet up on the coffee-table, destroying a half-asleep Liam on the Xbox and feeling pathetically triumphant about it still.

Harry snaps his fingers at him. “Yes!” he exclaims, “good Lou-eh.”

“Good _comma_ Louis,” Louis corrects, “sounds like you’re talking to a dog otherwise.”

Harry glances up. “Wha’?”

“Nothing. Nothing, nevermind.”

Harry nods, expressionless, and turns back to his pad. Only a second passes, of course, before a little “good boy” slips out.

“You’re a pest,” Louis says, because he can’t come up with better because he’s too busy pressing his coke-bottle inbetween his thighs to cool them down. “No wonder someone pissed on you.”

“Heey,” Harry whines lazily, not looking up, “they were marking their territory. It was a gesture of their affection.”

“Oh, well, then let me one-up them and shit on your chest, how’s that?”

Harry looks up, eyes wide and bright, shocked. He grins, wide and toothy, impressed. “You’re so fuckin’ filthy, Louis.”

“Hey, it was meant as a gesture of my affection,” Louis says, throat dry.

“No, you’re just fucking _filthy_ ,” Harry says, not letting up on the eye-contact, last word spat out so violently Louis’ thighs cramp up around his coke, “whatever happened to that sweet, innocent little schoolboy I used to know?”

The controller slips out of Louis’ hand. He’s long since now forfeited the game, and Liam hasn’t noticed because he’s nodded off on the middle couch, snoring openmouthedly at the ceiling. Louis clears his throat. “I could ask you the same thing,” he says, even though they both know Harry wasn’t ever anything of the sort. At first glance, maybe, but he’d soon outrage anyone around him.

“I’m still here,” Harry says, voice so monotone that Louis can’t help but laugh. “What? I’m still sweet and innocent. I am.” He rearranges his dick in his jeans with a showy sniff of the nostrils. “Not so little anymore, though.”

“Oh, get the fuck over yourself.”

Harry laughs. “When am I going to meet your husband?”

“Why would you want to?”

“Got to see the man who managed to get you so…” his eyes do a horrible up-and-down glide of Louis’ body and Louis becomes painfully aware that he’s wearing his tiniest jeans today, “settled.”

Louis makes a huffy sound at that. “Settled?” he echoes, “somehow that wasn’t what I’d expected you to say.”

“Well,” Harry says, “maybe I _have_ changed, after all.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Haven’t even changed your fucking pants, from the stench of it.”

“Oh, you love my stench,” Harry says roughly, and it would’ve been just a tad too much if he hadn’t moved his gaze away from Louis by now. Fuck, no, it’s still too much. “Had to have the leather cleaned after you’d rubbed your slick all over my seat.”

Louis’ mouth gives a loud clicking sound.

Harry looks up, slightly smug, slightly red. “Your husband must be something,” he says, “if you’re willing to give up getting fucked by people who literally make you cream yourself just at the smell of it. I’d like to meet him.”

Louis snorts, but it comes out screechy, weak. He thinks he might be suffocating. “Well,” he manages to say, “you’re never going to.”

 

*

 

He turns out to be terribly, terribly wrong terribly, terribly soon.

Not one week later, on an otherwise average Friday, Niall and Zayn decide to have a party. Something about celebrating landing a deal with a massive new vendor. _They’ve got the best sextoys on the market at the moment, Louis, even Kim Kardashian promotes them_ , Niall told him euphorically, _we’ll get a load of free stuff in to have a look at, I’ll get you all the buttplugs you can possibly stuff up that slick little arse of yours_.

And, of course, Louis’ sitting in bed with Colin when he gets the call about said party. Colin overhears, lights up and exclaims _yes! I need to get properly pissed after the week I’ve had at work!_ and Louis mutters _or, we could stay in and do whatever you want in bed_ , to which Colin replies _no, babe, we can always fuck. Besides, I wanna meet the bloke who tries to fuck people’s husbands in backseats of cars_.

Louis tries to get out of it some more, but it’s no use and Friday night, dressed up to the nines, they’re walking into the party.

To Louis’ relief - and possibly due to the fact that he delayed them as much as possible beforehand - it’s crammed already, he and Colin having to shove and suck in their guts just to get through the hall. They find a familiar face in the kitchen, Liam standing by the fridge, swaying quite a bit, and chatting to a cute little woman, sitting with her legs dangling over the counter.

“Guuuuuuys!” he sings when he sees Louis and Colin, throwing his arms out at them so violently that he spills a bit of his drink on his little woman’s pretty dress. She doesn’t mention it. “Viv, this is my best mate, Louis and his best husband, Colin!” he says, grabbing Louis by the arm, “guys, this is Vivian.”

Vivian grins and shakes both their hands. “Hi.”

“Hi, Vivian.”

She has big green eyes, short white-bleached hair with blackbrown roots and a sweet smile. She looks almost suspiciously identical to everyone of Liam’s (few) ex-girlfriends.

They chat and drink with the two for quite a while, and once Louis’s buzzed enough to go off on his own, he ventures over to the couches. They’re stuffed with people, one of them being Niall with a girl in his lap and another being Harry, with a big wide smile on his face, directed at Louis.

“Lou-eeeh!” he calls out, beckoning him over.

Louis sighs, and then gives in, walking over and cramming his big bum into the near-nonexistent space between Harry and Niall and his lap-girl.

“There you go!” Louis thinks he hears Harry yell, although it’s hard to be sure over the idiotically loud speakers. There’s a ninety percent chance this party’s going to end like nearly all of the party’s at this flat end; with ten ignored noise-complaints and the police suddenly busting in. And Niall mistaking them for surprise-strippers and getting himself thrown in jail for the night for “assaulting an officer”/trying to rip his shirt off.

But oh well, Louis thinks, and has a big gulp of the drink Harry’s just handed him.

“Where’s the hubby?” Harry leans into his ear and asks. The burgundy button-down he’s got on is buttoned down much too far and his exposed chest radiates heat, and scent. “Left him at home?”

Louis swallows thickly and turns away from Harry, partly to look for Colin, partly to not look at Harry. “He’s over there,” he says, nodding at Colin, who’s still chatting to Viv and Liam. “And it’s Colin, by the way.”

“I know, I know,” Harry murmurs, distractedly. When Louis looks back at him, he’s still studying Colin, brows drawn together, nostrils just a little bit flared. He licks over his lips. “Goodlooking bloke.”

Louis turns his gaze back to Colin. “Yes,” he says proudly, looking his man over. Colin’s smoothed his hair back from his face tonight, and his light grey eyes look sharp under his black brows and lashes, piercing in the light he stands in. He’s got on black jeans and a tight white t-shirt, showing off his lean figure. “He’s very goodlooking.”

“Nice arse, too.”

Louis turns back to slap Harry over the arm. “Hey, that’s my husband you’re talking about.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry chuckles, rubbing his arm where Louis slapped and pouting, all for show, “do I get to talk to him, ever?”

No, Louis wants to say. Never. “You—”

“Lads,” Niall interrupts, slapping an arm around Louis’ shoulders. His lap-girl’s run off, it seems. “See that bird with Liam?”

“Vivian?”

“That’s the one,” he says, grinning like he knows something, like it’s imperative they know he does, “Zayn and I met her at Starbucks. Got chatting to her in the queue and then I realised she was just the girl for Liam. Gave her up so he could have her.”

“You’re a saint,” Harry exclaims, eyes wide, exaggerated. He’s tipsy, at the very least, “a true selfless hero.”

Louis glances back at Liam and the lot. He looks like he’s getting on with her well. She looks like she wants him to react to the fact that she’s got a hand on his arm and has had it there for the last half hour.

“Does he know you’ve given her up so he can have her?” Louis asks.

Niall barks a laugh. “Course not, are you insane? I made up the party when I met her just to have an excuse for them to meet, then got Zayn on board and got a load of people invited. And see, there you go, he’s met the next love of his life and he thinks it’s on his own terms, the naive bastard. Isn’t it great?”

“An evil masterplan,” Harry drawls, “she looks cute.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt him to meet a nice girl,” Louis mutters, “just hope she doesn’t mind the whole Snip-thing, though.”

“If she’s drunk enough, she won’t mind anything but his cock,” Niall says, at which Harry reaches across Louis just to whack him up the back of the head.

Louis tunes out of conversation in favour of draining the rest of his drink, and then one more, and one more. When Colin leaves Liam and Viv to their own devices and Liam seems to be beginning to fuck things up with a serious case of sudden awkward silence, Niall jumps up to the rescue.

“Hiya,” Colin says, taking over his seat.

“Hi, babe,” Louis says, fixing his t-shirt for him and then leaning back, reluctantly, so Harry can get the hand he’s stretching out across to Colin.

“Harry,” he says, shaking Colin’s hand and smiling widely, too widely, and Louis fights not to roll his eyes, “so, you’re the famous Colin, then?”

“Yes, I’m Colin,” Colin says, smiling back, “but I do believe you’re the famous one, if I’m not wrong.”

“Famous and famous,” Harry shrugs, “everything’s relative, I guess.”

He finally retracts his hand, and Louis surges right down and pours himself another drink.

“I see now, what all the fuss is about,” Harry says, and Louis gulps so much drink down at once that he ends up in a coughing-fit and Colin starts to slap his back and rub circles.

“You all right, darling?”

“Yeah, fine, just— yeah,” Louis rasps, “I’m good, I’m good.”

He has a bit more of his drink, despite Colin’s weak objections, and ignores the way Harry’s grinning at the side of his face, probably fighting not to laugh at him.

It gets better, though, throughout the night. Well, they get drunker, anyway. Niall forces everyone into a plethora of drinking games, and Louis loses on purpose almost as much as Niall does himself, the alcoholic cunt. Far too many hours and shots into the night, Louis finds himself sitting cross-legged in a circle of people, watching Niall spin the coke-bottle he had between his thighs last week.

It ends up pointing at the girl he had in his lap earlier, through some sort of Irish leprechaun magic, and he gives her a good snog. She spins, kisses a girl, at which everyone howls and whistles, and the other girl spins and kisses Liam, who goes red in the face because Viv’s sitting right next to him, even though she’s laughing as much as everyone. Liam then spins, ends up kissing Zayn, which is uncomfortable for everyone invovled, participants as well as audience. Zayn spins and kisses Colin, which is even worse, not so much due to jealousy as Zayn’s awkwardness at having to kiss two men in a row.

“Hit three and there’s no going back,” Louis yells, “you’re stuck in gay-land forever.”

Everyone laughs, except for Zayn, who’s too busy wiping his mouth off and fixing his hair back in place. Colin spins the bottle and kisses Viv, sweet, short and still enough to make Liam’s hands start twitching. Viv spins and kisses Harry, lengthy and tonguey because of course it is, it’s fucking Harry.

And then Harry spins the bottle. It almost points at Colin, but then it doesn’t. Then it stills, pointing at Louis.

“Oh,” Harry says, gaze gliding up Louis’ body and then flicking away before it reaches his face, over to Colin, “all right, mate?”

“Ehm,” Colin says, frowning a little, and Louis finds himself wishing he’ll, for once in his life, be the jealous controlling husband that he isn’t, and tell Harry _no, no you can’t kiss my man_. But he knows that won’t happen. “Be kind of hypocritical if I said no, wouldn’t it? I literally _just_ kissed two other people,” he chuckles.

“Right.” Harry’s nods, licks over his lips, nods again, then gets up on all fours and starts crawling.

He doesn’t look at Louis until he’s close enough to kiss. The alcohol in Louis’ bloodstreams dulls the effect of Harry’s scent, but not enough that he doesn’t gasp a little, once Harry puffs out an unsteady breath against his lips.

Someone slaps Harry’s arse from behind - Niall, Louis’ pretty certain - and it sort of jolts him forward, his lips pressing up against Louis’. Soon as they do, Harry grunts into it, small and rough, and Louis’ lips part with another gasp. Harry groans, tonguing right in, both his big hands going up to clutch at Louis’ face. His thumbs press into the junctures of Louis’ jaw, opening his mouth up better, and he’s so hungry about the snog, so domineering, that Louis can’t do anything but claw at the front of his shirt and let himself be kissed.

Harry’s groaning into the kiss, low and continuous, clutching Louis’ jaw so hard it hurts, and his mouth is hot, wet and warm, bitey when Louis tries to take control of anything at all.

When he realises he’s about to slick up in his pants, though, if he hasn’t already, he wrestles himself free of the kiss.

“Bloody hell, you went to town, lads!” Niall yells, as a thin line of saliva breaks between Louis and Harry and drapes itself down Harry’s chin. He doesn’t wipe it off. He looks at Louis, eyes dark, teeth bared, lips sore-red and wet, nostrils flaring.

Niall makes a few hundred more remarks and people laugh it off, and Louis feels ten times drunker than he was two minutes ago, fingertips buzzing. It’s only when Harry’s crawled back to his seat and ripped his eyes off of him, that Louis realises Colin’s got a hand on the small of his back.

“Hey,” Louis says, turning to see if he’s all right.

Colin smiles back, genuine but a little fuzzy-eyed, fingertips slipping under the backhem of Louis’ jeans, nails scratching gently. “Hey,” he says softly. “S’your turn, babe.”

“Wha’?” Louis rasps.

“S’your turn to spin the bottle.”

“Oh. Yeah, okay, ehm—”

Louis doesn’t spare Harry a look, even though it’s all he can think of doing, and spins the bottle.

It lands on Harry.

“Fuck,” he says, accidentally out loud, “ehm—” he looks over at Harry, who’s looking at him, panting, open-mouthed, and— no. _No_. “Right, this game is getting boring. I forfeit,” Louis announces, and then scrambles onto his feet and hurries off before anyone has a chance to object.

He stumbles into the bathroom, slams the door behind himself and hunches over the sink, running ice-cold water and splashing his face till it goes numb. He stands there for a ages, panting into the sink, eyes squeezed closed, dick half-hard still, and doesn’t register it when someone walks in behind him until they’re putting their hands on his hips.

“Babe.”

Louis jolts at the touch, and straightens up. “Hey,” he says hoarsely, smiling at Colin in the mirror, “needed a sip of water.”

“I’m sure you did,” Colin grins, “got quite heated out there, huh?”

Louis resists the urge to elbow him in the flank. “Well, he’s—”

“Alpha. Yeah. Takes what he wants when he wants it.”

“Hm.”

Louis drops his gaze again, runs the pad of his finger over his sore-kissed lips, and Colin snakes his arms around his stomach, up under the t-shirt. He drags his lips over Louis’ shoulder, gently, then presses forward a little more. “You’re so fucking hot,” he murmurs, grinding his hard bulge forward.

Louis’ gaze snaps up in the mirror. “What, you— _really_?”

“Is it weird?” Colin asks, chuckling at Louis’ teacup-sized eyes, “he’s hot, you’re hot. You were hot together.”

Louis swallows thickly. “Colin, for fucks sake,” he half-laughs, “you can’t be serious.”

“I never lie.”

Right. “No,” Louis says. He watches his husband in the mirror for a moment, pressing soft little kisses up his shoulder and neck, hips grinding forward slowly. And— Louis’ drunk, horny, slick in his pants and growing harder by the second. “D’you want to get out of here, babe?”

“Hmm,” Colin hums, but doesn’t move an inch, “ _god_ , and the way he grabbed you. Right in front of me. Just took you, didn’t give a fuck. And you loved it, you were whining like a little—”

“ _Colin_.” Louis wrestles out of his arms, and turns around, frowning. “What the fuck are you playing at?”

Colin smiles, shrugging a shoulder. He’s drunk too. Not drunk enough not to sport that tent in his trousers, though. “I’m sorry, Lou, I just—”

The bathroom door slams open behind him.

“Oh, shit, sorry, are you—  doing anything?” Harry exclaims, eyes wild, hair all over the place.

“Just talking,” Colin says softly, eyes on Louis still.

Louis leans back on the sink, fingers cramping round the porcelain. “Do you need the loo?” he asks Harry without looking at him.

“No,” Harry says, leaning back against the bathroom door.

When he doesn’t say anything else, and his gaze is burning a fucking hole in Louis’ skull, Louis hisses; “then what did you want, Harry?”

“Was looking for you. Guys.”

Colin turns to look at him. “Yeah?”

“Wanted to say, uhm— well, to you, Colin, actually. Wanted to apologise if I— overstepped a boundary or something. I know that Louis told you about,” oh _God_ , “me asking something really fucking inappropriate in the car and I’m so fucking sorry about that, mate. You seem like a nice guy and I honestly meant no disrespect, then or just now.”

“Oh,” Colin says, smiling a little, “thanks, I suppose. It’s all right, I believe you.”

Harry looks a bit befuddled, gaze flicking to Louis and back again. “I- oh. Okay. Okay. Good.”

The room falls silent.

Then Colin asks; “So, d’you have a bedroom round here or…?”

Louis’ head snaps up, lips falling slack. He doesn’t say anything, just stares at Harry.

“Uhm,” Harry says, slowly. His gaze glides over Colin, stuck on his eyes for a long moment, then across to Louis, first just looking him up and down, then meeting his eye, raising his brows, like in question.

Louis doesn’t know what his face says, all he knows is Harry didn’t miss the bulge in his jeans, the way his lips hang open, the smell of his slick.

“Yeah, I do,” Harry says, finally. “You guys wanna see it?”

They make their way through the flat wordlessly, going unnoticed. Harry crawls first up the ladder to his loft-room, then Colin and then Louis, lastly. Louis’ only been up here a handful of times after Harry moved in, never when he’s been drunk like this, horny, stomach knotted up with anxious energy.

When he reaches up the top of the ladder, gets on all fours under the low slanted ceilings, knees on the fuzzy carpet, Colin and Harry are already in bed. They’re talking, quietly, about something Louis can’t hear. He can see, though, the looks they’re giving each another, how close they’re lying. Louis crawls close enough to hear them, stops to wait for the room to stop spinning and then hears Harry say; “you wanna touch it?”

Colin looks over at Louis, then back at Harry again, sliding a hand down to cup his bulge. “You wanna touch Louis?” he asks.

Harry moans as his dick gets massaged through the fabric of his jeans, and takes his gaze off Colin, looks at Louis instead. Licks over his lips. “ _So_ bad,” he says hoarsely, and then Louis’ jeans soak through entirely. “ _Fuck_ ,” Harry hisses, nostrils flaring out, and jumps right up onto all fours. “Louis, get over here.”

Louis nods frantically, crawling up onto the mattress and then nearly melting into it when he realises how much these sheets smell like Harry. He ends up between Colin and Harry, and in his uncertainty, decides to face Colin.

“Baby,” Colin says, petting the side of his face, “you want him to fuck you? He wants to fuck you so badly.”

If that wasn’t enough confirmation, Harry’s fitted around him from behind, teething at the nape of his neck, tugging his jeans down, fumbling impatiently with his own belt-buckle.

“Yeah,” Louis finally admits, and Harry whines into his neck, gets Louis’ jeans down his thighs and then fits his fat cock into the crevice of Louis’ slick arse. “Yeah, fuck, I—” he reaches back, gets an arm around Harry’s neck to get him closer, “you can— Harry. Harry, _please_.”

Harry groans at that, sets his teeth in Louis’ shoulder and then begins to press up into him. He’s big, too big, bigger than any dildo they have at home, and Louis’ hole is slick, fighting to accommodate, wanting it, but—

“ _Fuck_ ,” Louis hisses, dropping his chin to his hot-flushed chest, Harry clasping onto his hip to keep from slipping out.

Louis grabs the sheets, fisting his hand up, and Colin grabs his hand, kisses his knuckles. “Take him,” he says softly, “take him, you can take him, baby.”

Harry’s panting hotly, rough hisses against the nape of Louis’ neck, rolling his hips forward, pressing harder every time, getting deeper. He snakes an arm under Louis and up across his chest, clutching onto the side of his sweaty jaw, big thumb pressing inbetween Louis’ teeth.

Then he fucks forward, deeper, and Louis feels his swollen knot and wants to cry out, but bites down on Harry’s thumb instead.

“There we go,” Harry pants, voice shot to hell, hips snapping forward, hard and relentless, deep as he can go, “there, take it, Lou. Take me, you can, trust me, you can.”

Louis screws his eyes shut as Harry fucks him, biting his finger so hard it must hurt, holding on for dear life to Colin’s hand in the sheets and Harry’s strong arm round his chest. He cries out when he comes, arsehole clenching up around Harry’s knot, milking him. He’s shaking through it and Harry’s holding him, squeezing him, hard, biting his shoulder, pumping hotly up into him for what feels like ages.

He thinks he hears Colin say _oh my god, did you knot him?_ and Harry growl something of a _yes_  back at him, and then reach a hand across to jerk him off, but he can’t even bring himself to watch, can’t do anything but give into his body, rolls his hips back on Harry, squeeze out as much come as he can possibly get from him. He’s whimpering, he thinks, constantly nuzzling into Harry’s face, seeking his scent, his warm skin, his protection, and Harry’s shushing him and licking him, nosing into his neck and coming over and over and over again.

He doesn’t sense much else than that, because he passes out drunk while Harry’s still tied to him.


	4. Chapter 4

He wakes at the creak of the mattress. His head feels all right, hangover considered, but his body’s sore, feels heavy, like he could close his eyes and sleep seven hours more, no problem, but he doesn’t. He blinks a few times and focuses on the space around him. The first thing he sees is the top of Colin’s hair just before he disappears down the ladder. He wants to call out for him, maybe ask why the hell he didn’t wake him once Harry’s knot had gone down and got them a taxi home, but he can’t find the energy.

Colin disappears and Louis closes his eyes anyway, just for a moment. There’s low chattering going on downstairs, and he thinks he hears Zayn greet Colin in the kitchen, and Colin lie about having slept in the bathtub.

Up here, the only sounds are the rain tapping the little window above Louis’ head, and Harry snoring on his left side. Louis’ dipped in and out of sleep all night, possibly due to the fact that this mattress wasn’t made to fit three full-grown men, possibly that Harry kept grunting and biting and pulling on him, even in his sleep.

“Hm,” Harry says, slapping himself in the face as he slowly awakens.

Louis’ head snaps sideways, looking at him, and he feels a bit like fleeing for a second, but then stays in his spot like he’s nailed to it. Harry’s naked still, covers only covering so much, and Louis can’t help but let his gaze glide down to the outline of his cock. It’s hard from just waking up, head of it peeking out from under the covers, drooling messily between his fern leaftattoos.

Harry blinks his eyes open then, looks straight into Louis’ face, just a second before Louis manages to flick his gaze up from his dick.

“Morning,” he rasps, expressionless.

“Morning.”

Louis’ slicking up the sheets beneath him, but he can’t bring himself to care because he absolutely wrecked them yesterday anyway, god knows Harry did too when he pulled out at some point, and Harry’s just looking at him now, bottom lip sucked in, brows furrowed.

They stare at each other for a long moment, unblinking, and Louis can’t read Harry at all.

Then Harry drops his gaze.

It isn’t until he’s padding his fingers around Louis’ throat and shoulder that he realises he’s inspecting all the marks he made last night. Louis doesn’t say anything to it, just lies there, chest heaving, and watches Harry. Harry shifts closer with a grunt, noses into the bruises, Louis wincing quietly, and then starts to lick them, gently.

“Harry—”

“It’s not sexual,” Harry says, but fucking hell it feels like it is when the low hum of his voice presses into Louis’ skin like that, vibrating through his body, jerking his half-forgotten morning wood back on his mind.

He gets wetter.

Harry groans at it, sniffing at the crook of Louis’ neck, and then climbs on top of him.

His fat cock presses down just by the jut of Louis’ hip and Louis doesn’t stop him, not when he blankets Louis with all of his weight, not when he bites down on the bruise he just soothed with his mouth, not when he hitches Louis’ legs up and gets two big hands on his arse, tilting it up.

They don’t kiss. They don’t even look each other in the eye.

“You need this,” Harry grunts, and then nudges his cockhead at Louis’ rim.

Louis closes his eyes and locks his arms around him, squeezing him tight, down close to him, nails clasping at his skin to cope with how much he’s being stretched again. His hole is sore from last night, but not loose, not one bit more used to the feel of having someone so big press themselves into him, slow, but steady, relentless.

It’s worse now, he thinks, because he’s sober, feels every inch of it, but it’s better, too, because the smell of Harry’s stronger, more intense, and feels familiar in a way it hadn’t before he knotted Louis last night.

Harry fucks him fast and hard, gives his arse a stinging whack here and there, and, just as Louis starts to come, he pulls his dick out, Louis’ hole clenching around nothing, stuffs him with three fingers to make up for it and then covers Louis’ chest in long spurts of come.

“How do you have so _much_?” Louis pants a minute later, arms laid over his eyes, chest still lifting and falling rapidly, “you came in literal _waves_ last night.”

Harry makes a grunty noise from where he rolled off to, face buried sideways in the pillow, arms out slack at his sides. “You need it,” he says, and doesn’t sound the least bit sarcastic, “it’s meant to fill you up, all of it. It’s meant to knock you up, cause your body needs to be bred.”

“Needs you to shut the hell up, is what it needs.”

Harry obliges.

Louis massages at the bridge of his nose for a bit, wondering whether he’s still a bit drunk, after all.

Harry shifts around to look at him. Louis resist the urge to open his eyes and look back.

“Lou-eh,” Harry drawls lowly, as he fiddles with the sheets and then begins to wipe Louis’ torso off with them, “if you aren’t on the pill, you have to take the morning-after stuff.”

“Oh.”

He did get a prescription for those pills a couple years back, because it isn’t like it’s _impossible_ for Colin to get him pregnant, but he never got round to actually picking them up. _What are the chances, anyway?_ he’d thought. _Incredibly low because your husband’s a beta_ , everyone had replied. Not that Louis ever spoke to that many people about the subject. He knows Colin doesn’t like to think about the fact that they’ll probably need help when they do one day feel ready to have a kid, that they might even need to use a donor in place of Colin. Well, they might get lucky and have a little beta-omega baby, but fact is, Colin’s been coming in Louis since he was sixteen and he’s never once had a pregnancy scare.

“I’m not on anything at the moment,” Louis mutters, peeking an eye at Harry to gauge his reaction.

Harry just nods like he saw it coming. “Okay,” he says, “you have to take them within a said amount of time. I can’t remember exactly how much, but it’s like, two days or something like that. Otherwise it might not work.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine, I’ll figure it out.”

“Are you sure?”

Louis sighs, irritated, and turns his head to look at him. “Yes, Harry, I’m not some groupie trying to trick you into having your baby, chill out.”

Harry blinks. “Oh, I— no, I didn’t mean, I— I just meant if you needed me to help you or—”

He’s interupted by a violent creak of the ladder.

“Hello?” Louis calls out, panicked at the thought of Zayn, Niall or, god forbid it, Liam finding them up here like this.

“Hello,” Colin calls back, and Louis’ heart falls back into place.

He shifts to sit up straighter, scouts the room for his clothes, but everything’s tangled up in each other, everything’s skinny jeans and Calvin Klein’s and fucking  _sperm_. He yanks the blankets up to his chest instead. Which results in Harry lying flat on his back, cock on full display, when Colin finally rounds the top of the ladder.

He’s got on last nights clothes, and is balancing a cup of tea in his left hand, and doesn’t comment on Harry’s nudity.

“Would’ve brought for both of you, but it’s impossible enough as it is to get up that ladder with just _one_ cup in hand,” he says, handing the tea over to Louis.

“That’s all right, mate,” Harry says, crawling off the mattress, starkers.

Colin’s eyes glide over his body, then snap away, over to Louis, grins and waggles his brows.

“Thank you, babe,” Louis says, having a tip of his tea.

“You want something to drink, Colin?” Harry asks from where he’s looking through his mini-fridge. “I’ve got coke, sprite, beer… water…”

“Oh, sprite would be nice, thanks.”

“Sprite it is.”

Harry brings the soda’s over for him and Colin, then hands Louis a big bottle of water even though he never asked for it. He takes it without commenting anyway, because Harry’s concern is kind and Louis’ throat is dry.

They stay on Harry’s bed for a while, just lounging there. Louis doesn’t say much, just sips his tea and wonders whether they’ve got painkillers specifically made for arse-soreness and if so, whether they sell them at the local pharmacy. Colin and Harry chat about work, Harry’s crazy tour-life, Liam’s puking up on the kitchen floor, the rain outside.

Louis can’t help but look at Colin and wonder when the hell he became so incredibly chill.

He always was, is the honest answer. Louis just never knew he’d be chill about this particular kind of thing.

 

*

 

They arrive home in the afternoon, trot wordlessly into the kitchen. Louis makes tea, Colin pulls out a bag of tortilla chips from the cabinet, drizzles them in cheddar and pops them in the microwave. They pull a two-liter coke and half a pizza left-over from the other night from the fridge, and then take the entire arrangement up to bed. Louis sheds off his trousers and t-shirt, snuggles in under the covers and props the pillows up for them while Colin gets the remote and the trays, slides up to his side and flicks on their Netflix.

“Thank fuck for telly in the bedroom,” Louis says, and Colin chuckles, rolls his eyes and scoots a little closer.

It’s an inside joke, one they’ve had ever since they had their first and only massive row ever; _Telly in the Bedroom or Nah?_ Louis won, and now they’re eating nachos and pizza in bed, two legs intertwined, watching marathons of whatever the fuck they’re on these days.

“Imagine if I’d gotten my crazy way and we hadn’t gotten a telly for the bedroom,” Colin says, “we’d have actually had to _talk_ to each other.”

“Christ, that sounds horrid,” Louis exclaims, shuddering, and Colin laughs, pinches him in the side.

They sit for a bit, just munching and watching.

Then Colin finally addresses the elephant in the room; “so, that was an interesting experiment last night.”

Louis sighs, rolls his head back against the headboard. “How much of it do you remember?”

“All of it. Blurry, but… all of it.”

Louis has a long sip of coke, just to buy himself time, then says; “I remember it too.”

“Good,” Colin says, giving Louis’ hip a squeeze under the duvet, “how do you feel about it now? Do you regret or is it… I mean, I’ve been worried all day that you might’ve gone along with it for my sake, but not really been that into it yourself.”

Louis finally looks at him. “No,” he says, raising his brows, “you didn’t make me do anything I didn’t want to do. I wanted to. It was fun.”

The worried frown Colin had stuck on his face dissolves. He smiles. “Great,” he says, “and as long as we’re being honest here, I have to say, that was one of hottest things I’ve ever witnessed. You getting knotted. You looked— just so _fucking_ hot. Both of you did.”

Louis chuckles. “I’m glad you think so,” he mutters, chewing at his nail at the same time, “Harry and I had sex again this morning, actually,” he adds, because he’s been debating how to say that all day and if this isn’t the right time then nothing ever will be. “We just— I don’t know, it didn’t even really feel like a decision, he just kind of… mounted me.”

“Oh,” Colin says, brows arching up a little.

“And, well— obviously I wanted it too. So. Yeah. We had sex again this morning. While you were down in the kitchen. Reckon it lasted like… a minute.”

Colin nods. Louis bites his lip.

“Hm,” Colin says, nodding again, “you must be goddamned sore.”

Louis blinks. Then finally lets out of a long breath of relief. “Bloody _hell_ , I love you,” he exclaims, “was scared you’d go ballistic about it.”

“Well,” Colin says, “while I would’ve loved for one of you to have called me up to join or watch, I think I’ll survive it,” he smiles, “let’s just say we had some fun with a horny alpha up in that loft and then that’s that.”

Huh. “Yeah,” Louis breathes, “yeah, okay. Blame it on the loft, then.”

“Blame it on the loft.”

And that’s that. Hm. 


	5. Chapter 5

The next couple days, Louis manages to repress the memory of getting knotted for the very first time in Harry’s little loft with his fucking husband on the sideline watching. He does a small talkshow-interview, updates his blog, cultivates various social media’s to keep himself relevant, writes an article for an online-magazine and takes Betty to the vet for a routine check-up and a complimentary toenail-trimming. He also manages to do some organizing of the notes for his next book and spends a full day inside, with coffee, tea and cigarette’s, researching and speaking on the phone to various Snip-operating doctors.

Two weeks after The Loft Incident, Louis realises the private number that’s been calling him non-stop since belongs to Harry. It isn’t a surprise that he hasn’t got Harry’s number in his phone anymore, because Harry changes it every time someone leaks it to strangers, which is every other fucking day, but the text he receives saying **answer my fucking calls - H** still sort of rubs him the wrong way.

At the same time it also sends a bit of a jolt through his entire body, and the fact that he can’t distinguish whether it’s out of fear or excitement undeniably sparks his interest.

Instead of calling or texting Harry back, he decides he’s bored and restless, and it’s only ten am, and Colin’s at work, and the telly’s doing that weird flimmery thing again, and Betty’s growing stircrazy too, and he might as well grow some balls.

He leashes her up and heads out.

It’s Niall who rings him up, but it’s Harry standing in the hall when he lets himself through the front door.

He’s not gone so far as to actually put on trousers, but he’s wearing black boxers and a bright red hoodie. He isn’t smiling when Louis walks in, looks like he’s actively fighting not to shout. When Betty runs across the floors and jumps to him, Louis realises the full extent of his wrath; he doesn’t even bend down to scratch her.

“Hey,” Louis mutters, not meeting Harry’s eye. He begins to toe off his trainers, palm on the wall to keep balance.

Harry doesn’t even answer him, just stands there, watching silently.

When Louis looks up again, Betty’s gone on to better things in better rooms and Harry’s still there, eyes dark, cold, jaw tilted out and arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“Well, don’t look so happy to see me,” Louis says, and Harry’s nostrils flare out.

They stand for a moment, just staring at each other, because Harry doesn’t reply and Louis’ too proud to get blatantly ignored three times in a row. It’s a while before Louis realises, though, that the deep furrow in Harry’s brow and the way he scrapes his bottom lip on his teeth, claws at his own arms like he wants to scratch through the fabric of his hoodie, isn’t born of anger, but rather frustration.

He’s fighting himself.

“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t call you back,” Louis says, flicking his gaze away because maybe that’ll make it easier on Harry. On them _both_ , who the fuck is he kidding. “I didn’t have your new cell and it was private, so.”

He peeks an eye at Harry again. He’s not changed position, but his eyes have gone glassy, desperate. 

Louis turns away from him, muttering something about saying hi to the others, but he only gets in two steps toward the door before he’s being pushed face-first into the wall. He lets out a startled _umph_ , and Harry grunts, one hand pressing flat between his shoulderblades, keeping him in place, the other tugging down at the back-collar of his buttondown.

“Harry—”

“Don’t move,” Harry says, reaching round the front of Louis’ throat to open the top two buttons of his shirt. “It’s not sexual,” he adds, as if he hadn’t stuffed his cock up Louis’ arse within a minute after saying those words last, “don’t move,” he says again. “I’m sorry.”

He gets the back of Louis’ shirt down enough to bite at his shoulders, quick shallow little nips on both sides as he noses into Louis’ skin, sniffs him like he’s checking to see that Louis’ scent hasn’t changed since last. Louis should push him off, but the fact that Harry keeps apologising profusely between nips and snuffles makes him reluctant to, empathetic because he knows how it hurts to deny yourself. He doesn’t think Harry’s ever had to before.

When Harry suddenly flattens his tongue out on the side of his neck, though, Louis can’t help but whine and push his arse back on him, starting to slick up.

“Fuck,” Harry hisses, shoving him roughly into the wall again. Then he’s off Louis entirely, steps stumbling backwards. “Don’t do that when I— fuck. _Fuck_.”

Louis stays at the wall, forehead rested against it, panting open-mouthed. Harry’s marched off to the loo and locked the door behind him, but Louis still feels him on his body. The press of his hot, wide chest against his back, the feel of his tongue on his neck, his teeth scraping his skin, his long hair, brushing Louis’ shoulders, tickling.

When he comes to, Harry’s still in the loo, hasn’t made a sound since he went in there.

Louis contemplates knocking the door, asking what the hell just happened, but it’s not like he hasn’t got a general idea, so he decides it better for them not to interact at all for a bit. He continues into the next room, grabs a controller and joins Niall, Zayn and Liam in the couches. When he hears Harry come out of the loo and clamber up his ladder five minutes later, he doesn’t blink an eye.

 

* 

 

Liam goes to bed around one pm, Zayn nods off on the couch and Niall goes to heat a frozen pizza, offering Louis half and not even attempting a little bit to hide his relief when Louis declines. Betty needs a walk before she shits on Liam’s bedroom carpet again, or pisses in the hall to make Zayn slip right as he steps inside and knock a huge bump into the back of his head. He’ll buy something to eat while he’s out.

He hurries in the hall, leashing Betty up and getting his clothes on, not wanting to risk Harry coming down his ladder before he’s out.

Of course, he only just makes it out of the stairway before he’s being called out for. “Louis! Hang on a sec!”

Great. Louis resists the urge to pretend to have gone spontaneously deaf and walk on, and it wouldn’t have worked anyway because Harry’s half-running to catch up to him.

“Sorry,” is the first thing he says when he comes up to Louis’ side, panting. He’s put on his usual black skinny jeans and yellow Timberland’s. His hands are hidden in the pocket of his hoodie, collar of it rubbing against his chin. “Can I walk with you?”

Louis looks him over, skeptical. “Yeah,” he says reluctantly, “why, are you going down the kiosk?”

He shakes his head, looking straight head. “Just wanted to talk.”

“Okay,” Louis says, after a moment. It’s not like Harry can fool himself into thinking that sniffing, biting and licking Louis’ neck is appropriate, out here in public. It’d be disastrous if he did it anyway. “I’m going to the dog park.”

“Cool.”

Despite Harry’s excuses for chasing him down, neither of them speak again for a while as they walk. There aren’t any paps in sight, but Louis obviously isn’t as skilled as Harry at looking out for them, and Harry does walk with his hood pulled up, eyes on the pavement. Then again, that could also be attributed to the fact that he’s trying not to set his teeth into Louis’ skin again.

“What is it?” Louis asks, when they round a corner and the gate for the dog park comes into sight. “The thing with the... sniffing my neck and that? I mean, I get that it’s to do with your whole… thing, but— specifically, why’d you have to do it right then?”

Harry sighs like he’d actually deluded himself into thinking they wouldn’t ever talk about the incident again. “I meaan,” he starts, drawn-out like usual, “it’s like…” he opens the gate when they reach it, waiting for Louis and Betty to walk inside and then spending an inordinate amount of time making sure he’s locked it correctly behind him, “like, primal, I guess.”

“Yeah, tell me something I don’t already know.”

“Right, well—” he rubs over his nose with the back of his hand, scouting the dog park, and then sighs, looking back down at Louis, “do you really want to talk about this out here?”

“Yes,” Louis says, because here, at least, they won’t end up doing something absolutely ridiculous together. He expects. “You said you wanted to talk, but you didn’t initiate conversation for five minutes straight. You’ve lost the right to pick the topic,” Louis says, and Harry grins, just a little, “so answer my question.”

Betty tugs at the leash right then, so hard Louis nearly stumbles and falls. He sighs, crouching down to unleash her and watching as she sprints off. When he gets up again, Harry’s trotting lazily up a grass-hill toward a bench. Louis follows quietly.

“It’s just because I accidentally watched the talkshow,” Harry says when Louis thumps down on the bench beside him, far away as possible, “that you were on.”

“Oh. The one with—”

“Mistar Stilyaboi, yeah,” Harry says, nose scrunching up when he says it.

Mistar, an actor turned talkshow-host and well-known alpha, with a taste for young male omega’s, did brush a hand over Louis’ knee more than a few times during the show. And put a hand much too low on the small of his back in the green room. Nothing too bad.

“What’s the problem with him?” Louis asks.

They’re watching Betty fart about in the muddy grass, and Louis’ rubbing his freezing pink fingers, scolding himself for not bringing gloves.

“He’s just—” Harry says, and when he cuts himself off with a strangled noise, Louis fights every instinct in his body not to look at him, “I didn’t want him to be on you. I just didn’t. It’s all right that, that Colin’s— but, uhm… but you haven’t ever had another alpha knot you before me, have you?”

He wants to come off like he already knows the answer to the question, but Louis does know him, after all. Does know what he sounds like when he’s worried, nervous, trying to get at something without having to lose face.  

Louis won’t let him get away with it. “You don’t get to ask me that,” he says, “that’s none of your bloody business, Harry.”

“Well, I still needed to be sure he hadn’t been on you,” Harry replies, almost defiant, like _well, then there you go, are you happy now?_

He isn’t happy now. He’s just cold. All over. Except for on his neck, whenever he makes the mistake of thinking back on what happened in the hall. It’s sickening, the effect this biological bloody inconvenience has on him.

“He hadn’t been on me,” Louis says dryly. “I’m fucking married.”

“I know he hadn’t,” Harry says, “I could still smell me on you.”

Louis gives in then, finally looks at him. “What the fuck do you mean?”

“What I said.” Harry licks over his lips, painfully slowly. “Louis, I didn’t just fuck you, I _knotted_ you. I’m not sitting here like a fucking imbecile, telling you that means we’re soulbound for life or some shit, I know you love Colin and I didn’t fuck you thinking we were going to fuck again after that. But, I can’t deny that things’ve shifted for me now.”

Louis swallows. “What do you mean?”

“You know what the fuck I mean,” Harry says, lowly, and it hits Louis somewhere low in the gut, “I shouldn’t have fucking knotted you, but I was drunk and I didn’t want to pull out and so I ended up knotting you. It was stupid, but it means now that I, uhm— well, I shouldn’t have watched you in that talkshow anyway.”

Louis bites his lip, looking him over. He looks sincere, genuinely sorry. There’s nothing much they can do about it now. They’ve known each other since they were kids, but haven’t been close since their teens. They’re friends again now, for the first time in years, but they still aren’t close. They aren’t what they once were and they aren’t meant to be. That said, Louis can’t deny it either, however much he’d love to; he’s had his first knot and that’s shifted something. Between him and Harry and, also, within himself.

He doesn’t know what to do with that, though. He doesn’t want to.

“Anyway, Colin’s probably home from work soon so I’m gonna take Betty in a minute and head off,” Louis says, lifting his fisted hands up to breathe on them for heat.

“Here,” Harry says, and then reaches across and folds Louis’ icy hands up in the big warm ones he’s been keeping warm in the pocket of his hoodie. “That better?”

It is. Louis just drops his gaze to the muggy piece of bench between them and lets Harry hugs his hands with his own for a bit. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

“S’all right,” Harry says back, even quieter.

They sit there for a moment, just like that.

“But, Lou,” Harry says after a long while, thumbs circling affectionately over his knuckles, “if you and Colin ever want to do anything again, or just you, if he allowed it, I’d still want to. I mean, I’m up for it. I’d still fuck you again, I’d— you know. I would, I really would.” Louis looks up, and he smiles, wide and saccharine. “I’d pull out and everything. Wear a condom, even.”

Louis exaggerates surprise. “You’d do that for _me_?”

“I’d do anything for you,” Harry says, stupid grin on his face, “I’d, like, fuck you _anywhere_ you’d like. The mouth, the arse, between the thighs, I’d— you know, wherever you’d let me put it. I’d want to. Just FYI.”

Louis realises Harry’s still holding his hands, tighter now, and that the insides of his own thighs have flushed at the thought of Harry fucking him between them. Of course, Harry slides a hand up the inside of his thigh right then, nosing into his neck, nosetip icy, and Louis shivers, from all of it at once.

“Would he?” Harry murmurs, low against Louis’ throat, “have you spoken to him about it, would he let me again?”

Louis’ lips part with a click, his head tilting back, and Harry presses his face into his exposed throat, breathes him in again. “What would you do if he would?” Louis hears himself ask, heat rising up to his neck, his jaw.

“Fuck, I’d—” Harry’s voice catches, and he takes one of Louis’ wrists, moves his hand over and puts it on his own crotch, so Louis can feel just how hard he is, how big he gets just from this little, even through his jeans. “I’d rub it anywhere, Lou. Everywhere, I’d rub my cock up every part of you so no other alpha came near you. And I’d put it in all your holes, fuck, I’d come in you, I’d—”

Betty jumps up Louis’ leg.

Fuck. He jerks away from Harry, dizzy, burning up inside, and stumbles off the bench. “I’ve got to go,” he announces breathily, not looking back at Harry as he fumbles to leash Betty back up, “I’m going to go. I’m—”

“Fuck, I— sorry. Sorry, Lou!” Harry calls after him hoarsely, “let me at least drive you home!”

And, _no_. He’s not making that mistake twice. “Goodbye!”


	6. Chapter 6

He arrives home hours before Colin, just like he knew he would. Betty gives him a disgruntled look, like _why’d you take me away from all the fun people so early?_ , but there’s not much he can do about it now and he sure as fuck isn’t going back there. He doesn’t have anything on the schedule today, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a fuckton of productive stuff he _could_ be doing.

He ends up masturbating in the shower and traumatizing himself when he accidentally gives the poor rubber ducky a full facial. Afterwards, he makes himself two peanutbutter sandwiches and a cup of tea, and snuggles up in bed to watch telly, limbs nice and languid from a good fingerfucking.

He dozes off at some point, and then wakes, suddenly, at the slam of the front door.

It’s dark outside, the telly’s turned itself off after not being touched at all for too long, which, well— maybe robots really _do_ have feelings, after all. Anyway, Colin’s trampling inside and Louis’ got half a peanutbutter sandwich stuck face-down to his shirt. He quickly puts it back on the plate, which had slipped to the floor, strips off his shirt and throws it in the hamper, gulps down the last lukewarm drop in his tea-cup and then moves to take the dishes downstairs.

That’s when Colin steps into the room and asks; “did you see it?”

“See what?” he shifts quickly, sitting up properly. The pillows he was rested back against before he fell asleep have slipped down onto the mattress, and the bars of the headboard jab at his back, but he doesn’t move to prop them back up.

Colin’s gaze is arrestingly serious.

“Have you not looked at the net at all?” he exclaims, “or checked your bloody messages?”

Louis scans the room for his phone by reflex. He left it downstairs in his jacket. “No,” he says, “I came home and had a kip. Why, what’s happened?”

Colin sighs, then pulls his phone out of his pocket instead of answering. He taps around for a bit, Louis watching him anxiously, and then he comes across to the bed and sits down by him, handing the phone over.

“What’s…” Louis murmurs, but trails off when he sees the page Colin’s on.

It’s an article in The Sun, the headline reading; **HARRY STYLES VISITS LONDON DOG PARK WITH NEW MYSTERY BEAU.**

The first picture is of Harry and Louis, just walking into the park. It looks innocent enough, but then he scrolls down a bit further and finds four more, all on the bench. One of them just talking. One of Harry folding Louis’ hands up in his own. One of Harry with his hand on Louis’ thigh. One of Louis with his hand on Harry’s crotch.

They’re all grainy, like they’ve been taken on a private cell, probably some fucking teenager hiding in the bushes, but it’s unmistakably them.

Fuck. “ _Fuck_.”

“Nobody knows who you are,” Colin says, “I mean, no one’s tipped in your name or anything.”

Yet.

“How’d you come across this?” Louis asks, scrolling back and forth between text telling him that Harry Styles broke with ex Kendall Jenner months ago, and now seems to have moved on with a ‘hot little omega’.

“My sister sent it to me,” Colin says.

Louis bites his fingernail. “They’ll know who I am soon. I was on a bloody talkshow just the other day, it’s ridiculously lucky that nobody recognized my face or did some research before posting this shit.”

“Yeah,” Colin sighs, “but you know The Sun, they’re fucking blockheads.”

“Hm.”

Colin takes the phone back and pushes off the bed, slowly, and Louis’ stomach twists up with guilt. He bites his tongue and waits for Colin to make his way around the bed, lie down on his side and fix his gaze on the ceiling.

“Babe,” he says, carefully, laying a hand out on Colin’s shoulder. When Colin doesn’t shift away from it, he slides it on to his chest, “I’m really sorry. Nothing more happened than what you see in those pictures.”

“No?” Colin breathes, and even when he shifts onto his side to look at Louis, Louis can’t read him. “What _did_ happen?”

Louis looks him up and down, a small crease forming between his brows. “Nothing,” he says, “we went for a walk with Betty. We talked about— well, he’d done something in the hall, earlier, when I went by to see the lads. We were talking that out.”

“Okay,” Colin says, slowly, eyes intent, “what’d he done? In the hall?”

“He’d… sort of,” Louis fumbles, struggling to find a way to get the words out. The hardest part is that he still can’t figure out what Colin’s getting at. Whether he’s angry, or hurt, looking for a detailed explanation. Whether he gets off on it. “He’d sort of pushed me up against the wall and… sniffed me out, I suppose. Cause he’d seen me on that talkshow with—”

“Mistar,” Colin finishes, eyes going a bit too bright, making Louis’ frown deepen, “yeah. Right. Cause he’d knotted you that night in the loft.”

Louis nods slowly. “M-hm. He wanted to be sure no other alpha had been on me,” he says, “but he started to lick my neck and I got… into it.” He pauses, studying Colin’s reaction, and what he finds makes him go on to say; “so I got slick and pushed my arse back on him and he stumbled away because he was trying to respect you, I think.”

“Respect me?” Colin echoes, like that’s unheard of, “but then he didn’t,” he adds, licking over his lips, “later on. At the dog park. Then he didn’t respect me at all.”

“No,” Louis says, eyes gliding down his husband’s body, catching on the bulge in his jeans. “No, he fucking humiliated you, didn’t he?” Colin’s lips click apart on a moan. “ _Wow_ , darling, you—”

“What then?” Colin urges, breathless, sliding a hand down to squeeze his own bulge. “What’d he do at the park?” There’s sweat, slicking over Colin’s forehead and down his temples, a lock of black hair clinging to his skin. Without thinking, Louis reaches across to smooth it back for him, but Colin grabs him by the wrist and pulls it downwards. “Touch me,” he says, “babe, tell me about it.”

Louis swallows, gathering his thoughts, and then nods. “We were sitting on the bench,” he says, moving forward to tip Colin onto his back again, lean over him and rub his cock through the fabric of his jeans, watch him throw his head back on a moan, “he was telling me things had shifted for him, after he’d knotted me.”

“He feels like you’re his,” Colin breathes, throat clicking loudly, “he’ll fuck other people, do whatever the fuck he wants, but he’ll kill any alpha who comes near you cause he feels like he owns you now.”

Louis hums in agreement, tugging Colin’s jeans down and getting his hard dick out. The head of it’s a painful blood-red, slick and big, and he hisses when Louis wraps his hand around it, hypersensitive like he’s never been touched before, pumping out another blurb of pre-come.

Louis dips down to put it in his mouth, but Colin tugs frantically at his hair.

“No,” he exclaims, “stop. Just— stay up here. Keep telling me. Keep talking.”

Louis looks him over, uncertain about the entire thing. Fascinated, too. He’s never seen Colin like this. “He said he’d fuck me again,” he says, rolling his hand down Colin’s shaft, slick with pre-come, “he said he’d fuck _us_ , if we wanted. He asked if you’d allow it.”

Colin fucks up into Louis’ hand, moaning brokenly. “Mhm?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, shifting as his own dick starts to fatten up in his jeans, back of them dampening, “but he didn’t really care,” he adds, and Colin’s pupils blow out, “he doesn’t really give a fuck. He put his hand up my thigh, he put my hand on his crotch, he’d fuck me right there, right then if I’d have asked him to,” Louis says, hand speeding up as he watches his husband writhe around in the sheets, eyes squeezing closed.

“Fuck, he’d have thrown me into the grass and fucked me in front of those camera’s, he’d have let everyone see,” Louis goes on, voice steadier, dick so hard it hurts not to unzip his jeans, but he’s too caught up in seeing Colin love it, “that you’re nothing but a pathetic... little... _cuck_.”

Colin whines as he comes. His hips snap up into Louis’ hand, cock spurting up his own torso and all over Louis’ hand. His eyes roll back in his head and flutter shut again, lips pursed around his pants, and Louis keeps jerking him until all that comes out are dry little spurts, and he starts to wince from over-sensitivity.

Afterwards, Louis gets out of bed and pads into the bathroom to wash his hand off. He’s hard still, and slick, but not so badly that he absolutely _needs_ something inside, and he can already hear Colin snoring in the next room, knocked out from the violent orgasm he just had.

Louis jerks off into the sink, then comes back with a cloth and dabs his sleeping husband off.

Then he just sits for a while, watching Colin sniffle and curl up and snuggle into his thigh, and wonders who the hell he married.

 

*

 

The next couple days are a complete nightmare. The other paper’s have got hold of Louis’ name and published it with their near copy-pasted articles, and Louis wakes up to more missed calls by unknown numbers than he’s had his entire life put together. He’s got texts from friends he hasn’t heard from in years, girls he used to go to school with, but never spoke to, even his own sister, asking what the hell he’s doing and why he didn’t tell her he and Colin had separated.

He’s got a meeting with his editor that he cancels, and a headache he can’t get rid of because he’s afraid he’s going to get papped again, walking down to buy painkillers.

Colin doesn’t seem turned on by it anymore, either. All he does is pace the house, sulking, sternly warning Louis not to go on the internet.

In the end, Louis gives in anyway, turns his phone back on. The first thing that springs into his eye is a message from that journalist, Ellie, saying **did miss a good knot after all, huh? ;) I’ve called you, wanted to chat again if you’re willing to make a statement.**

Louis deletes the message, and her number, immediately, fingers shaking with anger. Fear. Colin’s somewhere upstairs and Louis’ sitting down here on the couch alone, feeling like his entire life’s been ruined in the space of one day. He really hadn’t thought this through.

So, he calls up the only person he knows might be able to help.

“Helloo?” drawls the voice on the other end, slow and lazy as ever. “Did you know that you and I are officially mates now? I just read it in The Sun. I love them, they’re always so nice at giving me a heads up about who I’m currently dating, in case I didn’t know myself yet.”

He’s not even fucking bothered. Louis’ hand clamps up around the phone. “Harry,” he says, voice thinner than he wants it to be, but then he’s too torn up to care, “this isn’t funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

“Harry, _please_ ,” Louis says, and his voice cracks before he even realises his eyes have damped up.

The other line goes silent for a second. Then Harry asks, voice ten times more alert than before; “hey, are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Louis manages, clearing his throat to keep his voice steady, “no, I’m not, actually, I— _fuck_ , this is really, really shit. I know this might not matter to you, but you don’t understand what this means to me. This is potentially detrimental to my _entire_ career, Harry. This is like— I know you haven’t read my book or blogposts, but those pictures are pretty much proving me to be the biggest fucking hypocrite on the planet. My _entire_ fucking book is about— fuck, and my readers, they’re… fuck, shit, this is really not good.”

There’s some rustling around on the other end, like he’s shifting, sitting down, maybe. “Louis,” he says calmly, “I’ve been linked to pretty much every omega I’ve ever been pictured within ten feet of since I was seventeen. If there’s one thing I can say to calm you down it’s that these things pass. These rumors go away. You just have to keep quiet and wait them out. Worst thing you can do is to kick up a fuss about it.”

But Harry doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get that these things have an effect on people, if you’re not someone who’s been perpetually “single” your entire life. Not everyone gets to be the oh, so charmingly philandering alpha-rockstar.

“People care who I kiss,” Louis says, slowly, fighting to get the words out right, “they care who I touch, fuck, anything of the sort. My reputation _is_ my fucking marriage, Harry, don’t you get that? That’s literally _all_ it is. My book, my public speeches, anything I do, anywhere I go, what it’s based off first and foremost is my personal life, what I do is be the front face of beta-omega marriage,” he grits, “how the _fuck_ does that look when I’m out getting felt up by the biggest fucking omeganizing alpha in Britain?”

He’s panting once he’s done, realising he got much louder than he intended to be. His chest hurts, feels too tight, ready to explode if Harry doesn’t do something, say something, _anything_ to help.

“Harry, we’re friends, aren’t we? Doesn’t it matter when I ask you to do this _one_ thing to save all that I’ve spent my entire adult life building for myself?”

There’s a small clicking sound on the other end, like she swallowed. “Louis,” he says, “ever since me and the lads first struck fame, I’ve had a personal principle saying I’m never, ever, ever going to speak up on my romantic life like that. You won’t ever find me in any interview, anywhere, saying that I’m anything but single or an article where I’ve personally denied anything about anyone. I want it to stay like that. I don’t want to give into people’s insatiable need to know who the hell I’m shagging, I refuse to let them have that. Who I fuck has _nothing_ to do with my car—”   

“But it has _everything_ to do with _my_ career!” Louis screams through it, “everything, _everything_! Can’t you do something for me, can’t you put something out there, make a little statement, something, just for me, I— is it really that much of a fucking sacrifice, just this once, when I am _begging_ you, I’m—” his voice cracks over and then he sobs, load and sudden, surprising himself.

He cuts the call off and hurls the phone across the room, sees it smash against the wall and drop in pieces to the floor. It doesn’t matter, he’s obviously going to need a new fucking number anyway. He yanks his knees up to his chest like a child, locks his arms around his legs. He stays there, forehead pressed to his knees until his sobs die out, along with the feeling that his entire chest is about to cave in on him.

He’s still on the couch when Colin finally does come downstairs.

“I just spent half an hour on the phone with my mum, trying to convince her you weren’t cheating on me,” he says, plopping down across from Louis.

Louis does a quick swipe of his under-eyes and nose and then looks up. “I’m sorry, Colin. I’m really, I’m _so_ , so—”

“Have you been crying?” Colin cuts through, and Louis’ words get stuck in his throat.

Without waiting for an answer, Colin pushes off the couch and reaches a hand out for Louis. “C’mon,” he says softly, “c’mon, Lou.”

Louis lets himself be pulled off the couch and tugged up the stairs, into the bedroom. They do this every so often. When one of them’s sad, tired out or just flat out needs it. They pull off their trousers, slide in under the covers and just cuddle up together, feel each other’s warmth, comfort.

Louis lies on Colin, his gentle fingers raking through his hair, lips pressing little kisses to his temples.

“It’ll be all right,” he says, “we’ll figure it out. I can call Harry and talk to him, yeah? I think it’s the least that he owes you, after he knotted you and everything.”

Louis gives a small chuckle. “Don’t think that’s quite fair, love,” he murmurs against the faint hairs on Colin’s sternum, “we had sex because all of three of us wanted it, didn’t we? We can’t really use that against him. He doesn’t owe me anything.”

“I suppose not,” Colin sighs, “he _has_ known you since you were kids, though. Should count for something, shouldn’t it?”

“Hm,” Louis grunts, like that doesn’t make much of an impression on him. Like it isn’t all he’s been thinking since he smashed his phone against the wall, knowing Harry wouldn’t make this _one_ tiny sacrifice for him. Knowing that, when it comes down to the truth of it all, Harry having knotted him really hasn’t shifted anything inside him at all.

Not that it should have.

 

*

 

When he wakes up, it’s dark out and he scolds himself for having fucked up his sleep-rhythm once again. He fell asleep on Colin, but now he’s all alone. He still feels hot, though, much too hot, and his head ache’s increased by tenfold. He’s got a terribly bad case of morning-wood and he’s wrecked the sheets a little bit, slicking up. He must’ve had some sort of a wet dream.

Or maybe he’s just been crying in his sleep, too.

He doesn’t know what people are saying about him, but he knows it isn’t _well, maybe he and his husband have just been experimenting with bringing a third into their still very loving, committed, non-alpha-dependent relationship_. He knows it isn’t good.

He pulls on Colin’s shirt by accident, but doesn’t care, lets the long sleeves droop far past his wrists and pads downstairs. Colin’s got the telly on and a plate of pesto pasta in front of him that he hasn’t touched. He’s chewing on the nail of his thumb, tapping restlessly at his own ankle, and his gaze is floating somewhere quite a few inches above the actual television-screen.

“You all right?” Louis asks quietly, plopping down across from him.

His head snaps up. “Louis!” he exclaims, because they’ve got fucking carpet on every inch of their floors so it’s more than a little possible to sneak up on each other without being heard, “babe, did you have a look at your phone?”

Louis groans, reminded of the smashed-up device. “I’ll leave it till tomorrow. Can’t I _please_ leave it till tomorrow?”

“No, but—” Colin snatches his own phone off the coffeetable and taps around for a bit, “look.”

“Colin, I honestly don’t want to—”

Colin takes him by the jaw and tilts his face down to look at the screen. “ _Look_.”

It’s an Instagram-video, looks like it’s been filmed on an iPhone. It’s Harry, sitting by the loft-room window, his hair a mess around his puffy face, no indication that he’s wearing a shirt from the look of his shoulders. “Uhm,” he drawls, and then spends three full seconds rubbing at his nose.

“What is this?” Louis breathes.

“Just watch.”

Harry sighs exasperatedly, making the microphone screech. “All right, so I don’t make these kind of videos, like, ever,” he says, quite redundantly, “but I wanted to make one now, addressing some rumors which’ve hurt some people I care about, and therefore also hurt me. I guess I don’t want to say too much, because it’s really none of anybody’s business, but… I have friends that are omega’s. We fuck around sometimes, like lads do. We’re completely platonic. I’d really love for everyone to not make it into something it isn’t, because it’s really hurting my friend, and that, uhm, hurts me, so. Yeah. Uhm. Peace out. Love to all.”

The video cuts out.

Louis sits for a moment, just staring at the screen. “Is that his own? Instagram, is that—”

“Yeah, he posted it about an hour ago. He also linked to it on his twitter, and tweeted something along the lines of ‘don’t believe everything you read’.”

Louis puts the phone down, lips quivering. “That’s— fuck, he’s—” he turns to look at Colin, and realises he’s gone all blurry. Fuck, he’s crying again. “That’s fuckin’ incredible.”

“It’s the least he could do.”

“Yeah,” Louis says, but it comes out like a whimper and Colin’s already got his arms around him, pulling him in so he can bury his face in his sweatshirt, “fuck, I don’t know why I’m reacting like this, but that’s just—”

“Yeah, baby,” Colin chuckles softly, linking his legs around Louis and scratching the back of his hair, “I just spoke to him on the phone to say thanks and whatnot. I think you need to call him in the morning, he was really upset about you crying on the phone to him and the line cutting off and that. Said he couldn’t sleep over it, but I assured him you were all right.”

Louis just makes a hurt little noise against Colin’s shirt. He feels overwhelmed with emotion, tears running down his face like someone’s kicked in the gates and he can’t stop it. His hands are jittery, buzzing, itchy at the palms and his lower belly hurts. His dick jerks to life when Colin brushes a thumb across the faint hairs on the nape of his neck.

“Babe,” Colin says slowly, carefully, like he’s scared to say his next words, “ehm… you wouldn’t happen to maybe - and I’m not trying to invalidate your feelings by asking this or anything, but - you’re not going into heat or something, are you?”

Louis snorts a chuckle. “No, not for another month, you know that.”

“Yes, but... didn’t you start those pills recently? Can’t they interfere with the cycle in some way?”

And— fuck. Louis pulls out of Colin’s arms, sniffling and wiping snot off his flushed face. He did pick up the pills he had a prescription for weeks ago, when he was down at the pharmacy buying the morning-after one’s anyway. He’s been taking them regularly since, but he thinks he forgot to yesterday, actually, and the day before that. And today.

Fuck.

“Oh god, I think you might be right.”

 

*

 

He is. Louis wakes the following morning, bathed in sweat, sticky with slick and so hard it hurts. Colin fucks him two times, first with his own cock and then with the big strap-on. He calls and cancels anything Louis has scheduled, cooks him up a stir-fry and then finally can’t put off going into work any longer.

“Love you,” he says, “good luck with— coping.”

Louis chuckles dryly and whacks him off when he tries to go for a peck on the cheek. “Fuck off or you’ll have to fuck me again.”

Colin backs up, glancing pointedly at the giant dildo lying slick and used at the foot of the bed. He grins at Louis. “Call me at the slightest thing,” he says, “I’ll rush home soon as I’m off.”

“Don’t wank in your lunch-break.”

“Can’t promise anything,” Colin replies, just before the door slams shut behind him.

Louis laughs, and then regrets as it sends a ripple through his body, down to his cock. He rolls over, which is an even worse mistake than laughing, his dick rubbing up against the sheets. He groans loudly into the mattress, throwing his arms out to his sides and grabbing the sheets, pulling them in and rolling up in them. The parts he hasn’t touched lately are cold, a relief against his feverish skin, but only for a moment until he’s wrecked them too.

He sighs, and then finds the dildo again.


	7. Chapter 7

When Colin arrives home after work that day, Louis’ still in bed. He got up a few times during the day, pissed and showered and ate anything in the kitchen that wasn’t phallically shaped. He got back in bed, fucked himself with the dildo for a bit, then hurled it across the room when he’d orgasmed and still felt dissatisfied, too empty. He could’ve kept it inside himself, sure, but it’s too much of a reminder, the soft rubber and the way it slides right out unless Louis sits a particular way to keep it in, that it isn’t the real thing. It’s a toy, a piece of plastic, it doesn’t twitch, grow, come inside him and stay there after. It doesn’t have a knot.

“I can get one with a knot at the base,” Colin suggests, looking at the overused dildo while Louis bites his lip, trying not to scream out  _fuckmefuckmefuckme_  before Colin’s hardly had a chance to sit down. “They sell them at Niall and Zayn’s site, don’t they?”

“I don’t know. Yeah. Probably,” Louis rattles out, and he’s rubbing his arse back on the sheets now, eyeing Colin’s crotch. He isn’t hard. He could be, soon.

Colin catches it, sighs and smiles softly, then drops the dildo and zips down his fly. He pulls his trousers down together with his briefs, then spends an unfair and unnecessary amount of time stepping out of them and tugging off his socks. Louis’ scratching up the sheets, kicking his parted legs around, panting through his teeth, anxious with impatience.

Finally, Colin gets fully naked, and crawls up between Louis’ legs and dips down to connect their lips. Louis kisses back sloppily, waiting for Colin to finish jerking his dick up and get the fuck in him already.

“Isn’t it enough now?” he can’t help but mutter into the kiss, after what feels like ages.

“I _just_ got in,” Colin says, voice apologetic and stunted from how hard he’s jerking himself, “I was gonna change the sheets, and I need to put your soup in the fridge if you don’t want it now, I wasn’t quite in the head-space, was I?”

“Is talking about it getting you harder?” Louis asks, “because I don’t think it is, so please shut the fuck up.”

“Sorry,” Colin chuckles breathily, and then finally dicks in.

Louis throws his head back and Colin pushes in far as he can go, grabbing him behind the neck and under one of his knees. He doesn’t look for a rhythm right away, just fucks in hard, again and again, eventually finding one.

Louis claws at his back and grinds back into every thrust, trying to get him deeper, much deeper.

“Harder,” he demands, slapping at Colin’s back, “harder, baby, please, harder, come on. Colin, I said ha—”

“Shut the _fuck_ up, will you?” Colin snaps, and then stops thrusting altogether.  

They lie there, panting, and Louis doesn’t know what to say, his body screaming a million times louder than his mind. He slides his hands down, gently, cups Colin’s arsecheeks and tries to get him going again, even if just a little.

“It’s not fucking good enough, is it?” Colin sighs, fighting it and keeping his hips still. “Might as well just drop it.”

“It’s good enough,” Louis exclaims, because the thought of getting nothing at _all_ is so terrible he could cry from it. “It’s good enough, Colin, you’re so good. Please.”

Colin bites his lip, brows furrowed, and then sighs again and pulls out. Before Louis has a chance to crawl after, get down on his knees and fucking beg him, Colin’s got the dildo out again, and is rummaging through his nightstand for the belt. Louis lies back again, fingering himself in the short while it takes for Colin to strap the dildo on.

“I’m sorry,” he says, because he hates the fact that Colin won’t look him in the eye now, that it’s so much of a chore, and that Louis’ too fucking selfish to tell him _we don’t have to use that thing, darling, you’re more than enough for me_.

Colin pushes the dildo into him and he groans, loudly, then feels bad because he never makes those noises when it’s just him.

“I love you,” Colin whispers, resting his face down by Louis’ and hitching his arse up higher, fucking into him deep enough that Louis almost forgets whatever he was worried about a second ago. “Love you so much, is it good, baby?”

“Mhm,” Louis manages, head thrown back in the pillow, eyes squeezed shut, nails in Colin’s back again.

“Good,” Colin says, kissing Louis’ sweaty jaw, smoothing back the hairs that cling to his forehead for him, “I just want it to be good for you, I love you so, so much.”

 _Harder_ , Louis wants to scream. Love me _harder_. “Love you too,” is what he says, “love you, darling, don’t stop, you’re so good.”

He locks his arms around Colin’s neck as he comes, moaning into the crook of it and keeping him close, clenching up around the dildo. Colin kisses him on the cheekbone, then the forehead and then pulls out and sits back.

“Thank you,” Louis breathes, “I think I’ll be good for a nap after this.”

Colin smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach the eyes.

“Hey,” Louis props himself up on his elbows, “you want me to suck you off or something?”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

“I’m not hard.”

“Oh.” Louis glances down to where Colin's pulling the hollow dildo off his flaccid dick. Right. “I’m sorry, was it not—”

“It was fine, Louis,” Colin says, but the exasperated tone of his voice and the way he ruffles Louis’ hair and then hops right out of bed suggests otherwise. “I wasn’t really in the mood, to be honest. Long day, so.”

Louis sighs, watching him as he undoes the belt again, damp black fringe dangling before his eyes, thigh-muscles taught, gleaming with sweat. “Thank you,” Louis says, “for doing it for me anyway.”

“S’all right. I just wanted to be good for you.”

“You _were_ good for me. You’re always good for me. It’s just, I suppose when I’m in heat, I—

“Yeah.” Colin smiles again, small and closed-mouthed. “I get it. I’ll get something to eat and you take your nap, then I’ll take you from behind later, yeah? Get deeper.”

Louis chuckles. “Deal.”

“Deal.”

 

*

 

Colin does fuck him again that evening, first with his own cock and then again with the dildo once he’s finished. Louis takes it, and comes, and then asks Colin to stay where he is, draped over Louis’ back, dildo deep inside him. He does, for a few seconds, then begins to pull out when he deems it sufficient. Louis tries to make him stay, tries to make him understand what he needs without having to say it aloud and risk hurting his feelings, but it’s hopeless.

Because what he needs, so bad he cries a little bit out of pure frustration, is a good knot.

He hates thinking about it, but he dreamed about it last night, woke up wanting it, falls asleep the same that night, dreams about it once more, wakes again sweaty, panting, slick, wet and loose, so depraved he feels sick from it. It’s never been this bad during any heat before. Then again, he’s never known what he’s missing like he does now.

He doesn’t tell Colin. He rolls onto his stomach, lets Colin spread his thighs and fuck him on the dildo again, then roll him back over and leave for work in a haste.

Colin would never say it, but he doesn’t have to. He’s sick and tired of feeling inadequate.

 

*

 

Louis wakes again with a jolt. It takes him a second to realise what woke him was the front door slamming shut downstairs. He shifts around to check the clock, cringing at the goopy sound of his arse against his own slick in the sheets, and finds that it’s only been a few hours since Colin left for work. He wouldn’t even be off for lunch yet

“Darli—” his raspy voice cracks over and he clears his throat, pulls his heavy body up to sit, “darling? Colin?”

No response. He sits stiff in the middle of the bed for a moment, just listening. He doesn’t hear anything for a while. No sound at all. It’s quiet for so long that Louis ends up convincing himself it was just Colin, quickly popping in to fetch something he’d forgotten and then leaving again.

Then he hears a growl.

His heart leaps into his throat. Without any pre-thought, only knowing the person in the hall definitely _isn’t_ Colin, Louis jumps out of bed and throws his overheated body at the door. He’s only just managed to lock it when someone knocks it.

“Who is it?” he calls out, voice still so raspy he isn’t sure the person hears him. He clears it again, then asks, delirious with fear, “Colin?”

There’s a throaty sound on the other end, like the intruder also needed to clear the rasp out before speaking. “Louis, it’s me.”

At first, Louis almost doesn’t recognize him, his voice too deep, too rough, much worse than normal, which is quite the accomplishment. It still shoots heat down his spine, has him stumbling backwards until his thighs hit the foot of the bed. “Harry?”

“Yeah, I— I was coming cause Colin said you were home sick and… I wanted to check on you, I— you’re in heat,” he says, like he’s slapping himself for even having gone all the way up here, like he knew the second he stepped in the front door and he still didn’t turn around and leave like he should have. “You’re in heat, fuck.”

Louis sits at the foot of the bed, soaking the space under his bum, clutching the edge of the mattress. He swallows. “How’d you get in?”

“Colin told me where the spare was.”

Louis blinks. “He did?”

“Said I should pop by while he was at work. I wanted to talk to you after what happened the other day,” he says, “he said you were all right, but I needed to see. I need to see.”

Louis takes in a long steadying breath. “Colin told you that you could pop by while he was at work? Today?”

“Yes.”

“And told you where the spare key was?”

“Yes.”

Okay. Okay. Maybe it’s the heat getting to his head, the relentless state of wanting, but not quite getting, convincing him this is something it isn’t, just so he can justify what he does next.

Anyway, he walks across and unlocks the door, slowly pulling it open, heart hammering his rib-cage.

Harry’s in the same red hoodie he was last, the black jeans and a pair of big scoffed-up sneakers. His nostrils are flared when Louis opens the door, but they get twice as bad soon as the odor from the bedroom hits him, brows furrowing angrily, wet red lips clicking apart.

He’s got a bag of something in hand, but drops it right onto the floor. “ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses, near voiceless. “Louis.”

“Yeah,” Louis whimpers, and stumbles backwards when Harry groans at it, starts to come at him. “Harry. No, Harry—”

“Don’t say my name like that, then,” Harry hisses, and Louis’ thighs hit the bed again, he falls backwards onto it. Harry follows, breathing through his nostrils like he’s trying to suck all of Louis’ scent out of the room. “Don’t open the door naked like that, then, you fucking—”

Louis whines, backing up on the bed even as every inch of his body screams for him to do the opposite.

“You fucking want it,” Harry says, and his voice is low, dark and humourless like it never is, “you do, I can smell it on you.”  

“Harry—”

Louis shifts onto his stomach, whether to present himself or to get away he isn’t sure. He starts to crawl toward the headboard, gets hold of one of the bars and that’s when two big hands grab onto his ankles, yank him all the way down to the foot again.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he yells, clawing at the sheets so they rip halfway off the bed, “fuck, what are you—”

Harry takes him by the hips, pulls him further back so his knees fall to the carpet, and he’s bent over the foot of the bed, face in the mattress. His slick is dripping down the insides of his thighs, and Harry grabs at them, slides a hand all the way up through his arse-crack and further along his spine until he runs out of slick at the nape of Louis’ neck.

Then he’s down suddenly, licking the slick off Louis’ back, biting at his neck when he reaches up there again.

He lays all his weight over Louis’ back as he bites into his shoulder, too hard. He’s warm, smells so intoxicating, so inherently good, that Louis almost doesn’t realise what he’s doing until he hears the clatter of the belt buckle. “Wait, fuck, I—”

“Lay still,” Harry grunts, still fiddling with his belt, and it’s a pointless demand anyway because he’s pressing so much, if not all, of his weight down on Louis that he couldn’t move if he tried, “fuck, you smell— fuck. _Fuck_ , I can’t think,” he babbles.

He gets his dick out, big head of it poking at Louis’ wet hole, nearly slipping in without the slightest bit of force.

“Harry—”

“Say,” Harry rasps, even as he’s already dicking in a little, having Louis whine into the mattress, “say no,” he says against the stinging bite he just he made on Louis’ shoulder, “say no to me if you don’t—”

Louis pushes back on him, his full cockhead popping past the first ring of muscle.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Harry hisses, grabbing him by both hips and dropping his forehead down between Louis’ shoulderblades, trying to force the rest of his massive cock in, “okay, okay. Come on, then, open up now, let me in.”

Louis’ panting so hard his chest is beginning to hurt from it, and Harry’s crushing him a little bit, too big and heavy on top of him. He bites into the sheets as Harry grabs both his arse-cheeks and pulls them apart roughly, fingers digging in around his wet hole.

Then, with an exasperated noise, Harry lifts off of him, takes him by both hips again and drives all the way in.

It happens so fast Louis doesn’t register the sting for the first second. When he does, he screams. It gets muffled in the mattress, but it’s still too loud, Harry’s knot so swollen he feels like it’s actively trying to rip him apart from the inside. He slaps at the sheets and back at Harry’s pelvis, frantic from the pain.

Harry leans over him again, the heat of his chest vibrating over Louis’ quivering back, and the tips of his damp hair gliding over one of Louis’ shoulders. He stays hovering above Louis for a while, hips rocking into him. Once Louis finally starts to adjust, moans mixing in with his whimpers, body starting to untense, Harry blankets him again.

His hoodie feels hot and sweat-soaked against Louis’ naked skin, and his jeans rub roughly up against the back of his thighs, but Louis doesn’t have it in him to complain. Doesn’t have in him to say anything at all.

Harry stays grunting into his shoulder, both hands on his arse-cheeks, holding them as far apart as he can, making sure not an inch of him gets left out. His thrusts aren’t gentle, every one so forceful the entire bed slams loudly against the wall, all in so quick succession Louis hardly has a chance to breathe, let alone moan.

He stays with his face in the sheets, biting them until he comes, hard, spurting onto the carpet, shaking and sobbing.

He feels small, vulnerable, pliant and submissive in a way he’s never been with anyone before. Right then, he thinks he’d let Harry fuck him forever, no matter how bad it hurt, no matter how big he got, just because he wanted to, he wouldn’t even have to ask.

Harry bites down on Louis’ shoulder as he knots him for the second time ever, one arm linked around his hips, keeping his arse pressed tight to his own pelvis, cock pumping so much come out at once Louis’ stomach goes round, tight.

Harry’s bite on his shoulder is so hard it gets painful quickly, so hard that Louis realises, suddenly, that he might be on the verge of biting through the skin.

“Stop!” he screams on hardly any voice, slapping back at Harry’s face, “stop, you’re hurting me, you fucking idiot!”

Harry lets up with a loud gasp, like he hadn’t even realised what he was doing. “Fuck,” he pants, as his cock spurts another load of come up Louis’ arse, “fuck. Shit, I’m sorry.”

Louis stretches an arm back, padding his fingers over the deep bite. It’s wet with something, but he can’t tell whether that’s just Harry’s spit, or sweat, or his own blood. Harry, who’s still rocking into him, cock pulsing and twitching, locked inside Louis, nudges Louis’ hand away with his nose to have a look.

“Didn’t draw any blood,” he breathes, “I’m sorry.”

Louis stops straining his neck and drops his face into the mattress again, sighing.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says again, kissing the bitemark, licking at it gently, hands running up and down Louis’ sides, careful, “I’m so sorry, I’m so, so, so sorry. Not just for the bite, I mean, I don’t usually— I don’t… I don’t know what came over me. Did I hurt you?”

All over the shoulders, the back of his arms, his neck, his hips, his fucking _arse_. “No,” Louis lies, because part of him wants these marks, part of him revels in every sore little memory he’ll have of getting fucked like this, “I’m all right.”

“God,” Harry chuckles breathily, dropping his forehead to the back of Louis’ shoulder, “we’re tied and yet I’ve hardly got my jeans halfway down my arse.”

“Shouldn’t have knotted me, could’ve just zipped yourself and dashed.”

“Could still dash,” Harry says, “I’d have to leave my entire penis here with you, though.”

“But then you’re worth nothing, innit,” Louis mutters, voice croaky from how Harry’s weight’s still pressing his chest down into the mattress, “without your massive knot-rod.”

“Aw shit, I forgot that part. Fiddlesticks!”

“Oh my god, do not _ever_ say fucking ‘fiddlesticks’ while you’re still inside me,” Louis groans, and Harry barks a laugh.

They stay like that for a bit, Louis on his knees, bent over the bed, Harry bent over him. After a minute or so, it gets too uncomfortable and Harry somehow manages to maneuver them up onto the bed and into a spooning position.

“I feel really exposed,” Louis says, as Harry trails his fingers up his naked stomach, still ninety percent clothed himself, “get the covers, would you?”

Harry chuckles softly and wraps them up together, gets them even closer than they were before and closes his arms around Louis. It isn’t long before he’s grinding into him again, getting him hard too, and then pulsing hotly up in to Louis, setting him off, dry little spurts up his own stomach.

“I’m sorry,” he says again afterwards, mouth at the nape of Louis’ neck, “that wasn’t as bad the first time, was it?”

“Wasn’t bad the first time.”

Harry noses into the back of his hair. “I know it must’ve hurt.”

“Isn’t it supposed to? Just, a bit?”

“I was too rough. Impatient.”

Louis reaches back and draws his big tatted arm tighter across his own chest, nuzzling into the soft milky-white inside of it. “Doesn’t matter,” he says, “what matters, on the other hand, is the fact that my husband told you to come here while he was at work, letting you know to just let yourself in the with the spare-key, full well knowing I was in heat and you were an alpha.”

Harry hums in agreement. “What do you make of it?” he asks, and if Louis couldn’t feel his grin against the back of his neck, he’d have heard it in his voice anyway.

“I make of it, dickhead, that he wanted us to play scrabble and drink orange-juice boxes together.”

“Well, then he should’ve known I would’ve rebelled against the plan,” Harry says dryly, “everyone knows I’m an apple-juice kind of guy.”

Louis elbows him in the gut and Harry laughs, and then rolls him face-down into the mattress and comes in him again. Three times.


	8. Chapter 8

After the fifth fuck, Louis finally calls it quits, deeming himself too sore to possibly go another round, so full of come he thinks his stomach-skin might burst. Harry seems done for the day too, their last fuck nothing but desperate little grinds and his tongue, flat on the back of Louis’ shoulder as he panted.

They lay for a while, snuggled close without talking, Harry licking intermittently at the bruises he’s peppered Louis’ skin with.

Once his knot goes down just enough to pull out, he shifts backwards, rubs a hand over Louis’ ribs when he winces softly, come spilling between them, and then starts to untangle their sweaty limbs. Everything around Louis feels cold, and even if it doesn’t, Harry seems warmer, better, so Louis shifts backwards too, seeking him again.

Harry chuckles softly, pressing his nose into Louis’ neck once more, sniffing him in.

“Mhm,” Louis murmurs thankfully, slapping a slack hand back to get Harry’s arm around him again.

When he can’t reach it, he grunts unhappily, but he’s too knackered to bring himself to turn around.

A moment later, the mattress lifts.

“Heey,” Louis whines when he hears the clatter of a belt buckle and blinks his eyes open, finding Harry across from him, getting dressed. “You leaving?”

Harry’s hair is a tangled mess, constantly falling in front of his eyes as he tries to buckle his belt. “Yeah,” he mutters hoarsely.

“Oh.” Louis throws a glance over his shoulder. It isn’t dark out yet. He looks at the clock. Colin won’t be home for another couple hours. “You didn’t have to go already, if— I mean. There’s no rush.”

“Well, uhm,” Harry says, and then turns around and leaves the room without another word.

Louis jerks up on his elbows. He hadn’t expected Harry to stay and snuggle for hours, but leaving without so much as a fucking goodbye seems quite abrupt. Seems rude in a way Harry wouldn’t ever be, no matter who he was dealing with.

“Harry?”

“Yeah.” Harry comes stumbling back in. “Sorry, I just remembered I’d brought this.”

He holds up the bag that he dropped to the floor earlier on, before he pounced on Louis. Louis had completely forgotten it’s existence. He sits up fully, watching Harry rummage a hand around inside it. “What is it?” his curious nature prohibits him from keeping in. “S’it a present?”

Harry doesn’t answer, just smiles to himself until he finally retrieves what it is he was looking for. It’s a little white box. It isn’t gift-wrapped or anything, but it’s sealed in plastic foil and when Harry turns it in his hand, Louis recognizes the logo. “Is that an iPhone?”

“Colin said you smashed your phone,” Harry says with a shrug, handing it over. Louis takes the box, only because he’s so in shock he doesn’t realise he’s holding his palms out to receive. “It’s the newest one, I think.”

It’s brand new, that’s for sure. Louis turns the untouched box in his hands a few times, then chuckles and reaches it out to hand it back. “Harry, you’re not giving me a fucking iPhone.”

Harry takes the box back. “I didn’t even pay for it,” he says, putting it down on Louis’ nightstand, “you don’t understand how much shit I get sent and given for free fucking constantly. I have, like, seventeen unopened iPad’s just lying in a bag at home to give to people.”

Louis bites his lip, looking the box over again. He wasn’t planning on buying the newest iPhone, gave up on trying to keep up around the fifth one that came out, but offered to him for free like that, it isn’t like he’s immune to the allure of shiny new things. And Harry probably gives gadgets double the price of these out to all his friends, so it isn’t like it has to mean anything.

“Thank you,” Louis says, giving a little smile, “then.”

Harry smiles back, thumbs in his pockets, lips pressed together. “Anyway, I better go.”

“You don’t have to,” Louis blurts, feeling an awful lot like a cuddle suddenly, “I mean, you can just— we can just hang out or something. Considering what we just did, I doubt Colin would mind that of all things.”

Harry chuckles. “It’s all right,” he says, “I’ve got to meet with a couple friends in a bit, so.”

“Oh.” Louis keeps his smile on, nodding. “Okay, well… thanks for the phone, anyway. Really, it’s too much.”

“It’s nothing.” Harry hitches his bag up, nods, and then turns toward the door. He stops in the middle of it, turning around again. “Uhm…”  

“Yeah?” Louis mutters, from where he’s busy attempting to get the stupid foil of the packaging for his new phone.

“Just, like, uhm... what are you going to do about birth control?”

Oh. Louis’s fingers still over the little rip he’d finally made in the foil. “Ehm—”

“I know you don’t like me asking about it, but like, fuck— yeah. Uhm,” he grins, a little sheepishly and tries to throw a hand through his hair. His fingers stop less than an inch in, because Louis’ fucked it up so much while they were fucking. Louis likes the look of it, just a little too much.  “Anyway, I can pop down now and get some morning after pills for you, if… uhm— cause you took some last time, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, “yeah, I’ve actually got a few left over so you don’t have to worry about it, I’ll take them.”

Harry nods, hesitantly. “Do you want me to stay round and take them with you or—”

“What the fuck would _you_ be taking them for?” Louis snaps.

He knows what Harry meant, but the way Harry’s so hell-bent on making sure Louis doesn’t get pregnant, so fucking terrified that Louis isn’t responsible or, god forbid, willing, enough to take the damn pills, rubs him the wrong way. Makes him itch with irritation, somewhere in the part of him that’s wired to _want_ Harry’s fucking baby. He hates that part of him, sure, but he hates the stupid look on Harry’s face more.

“Fuck off now, mate, you’ve had your fun. And don’t give me that look, if you were that fuckin’ worried about it, you’d have worn a condom. And didn’t you have some friends to meet with? Or was that just an excuse to get out soon as you were done?”

Harry’s brows snap together, his mouth going flat. He stares at Louis for a couple seconds, then shrugs his shoulders and snorts. “I’ll be off, then.”

And then he’s gone and Louis’ still sitting naked in bed, soaking the sheets with his come, scratching the foil off his new iPhone.

 

*

 

It _is_ dark out the third time he wakes that day. The house is darkened too, every light in the room off, no glimpse of it coming from the hall either. Louis rolls into his side, checking the iPhone he managed to get started before he fingerfucked himself for a bit and then fell asleep earlier on. It’s not ‘that day’ anymore, as it turns out. It’s ten past twelve.

Colin’s asleep on his side, back facing Louis.

There’s a large space between them on the bed, which Louis would’ve been worried about, considering yesterday’s events, but shifting his bum around he gets why they aren’t lying as close as usual. The entire spot he’s lying in is absolutely soaked in come. Harry’s come.

This is fucking disgusting.

He stumbles out of the bed, cringing as the movement makes more slick-diluted sperm seep down the back of his thighs. He makes it to the bathroom, then nearly slips and cracks his head open on the tiles as the come reaches down to his feet, but manages to grab hold of the towel hookby the bath.

He hauls himself forward, winces as he lifts his legs to step into the bathtub, turns on the faucet, lukewarm because his body temperature’s still a bit affected by the heat he’s almost pulled through, and then sits down underneath it like a child. The rays drum on his head, cascading down his shoulders, and he sits there for a while, just enjoying the embrace of it.

At some point, he pulls himself together and gets up into an awkward, but useful position, working out as much of Harry’s come as he can manage.

When he finally deems himself done, he wraps a big fuzzy towel around his languid body, chews dead skin off his raisin fingers and fumbles through the medicine cabinet. He finds the birth control pills and the morning after one’s, lays them out by the sink so he’ll remember in the morning, and then starts to scrub himself with the towel.

As he’s standing there, slightly hunched, drying his thighs, Colin comes padding in behind him.

“Babe,” he murmurs, and Louis makes an embarrassingly startled noise.

Colin chuckles. “It’s just me,” he says, stepping in behind Louis and meeting his eyes in the mirror, smiling, “good shower?”

Louis ducks his head. “Yeah.”

The room is silent for a while, the only sound the small drip of the shower-head.

Colin trails the pad of one finger over the bruises on Louis’ shoulder, and Louis shivers. He expects Colin to say something, anything, even if just a snorty little noise, but nothing comes. In the end, Louis looks up again. Colin’s gaze lifts a second later. He isn’t smiling anymore.

Louis bites into his lip.

Colin drops his gaze again. “Wasn’t too rough on you, was he?” he asks lowly, inspecting a deep dark-red lovebite on the side of Louis’ neck.

“No,” Louis says, stuck on Colin’s face, looking for something, any indication of hurt. Either there isn’t any or he doesn’t know his husband as well as he thought he did. A few weeks back, that wouldn’t have worried him. The possibility of the latter would’ve seemed ridiculous, but lately he’s uncovered sides of Colin he hadn’t even known existed. Himself, too. “I love you, you know that?”

Colin looks up again. Finally, he smiles, small and tender. “I love you too,” he says quietly, “all I ever think about is whether you’re happy enough.”

Louis swallows at the sudden lump in his throat. “Me too,” he says, “I don’t want us to do anything - I don’t want _me_ to do anything - that hurts you. If this is… if you’re just trying to accommodate, darling, I want you to know you don’t have to. This can end here. I don’t need it. I don’t need him. I need _you_. I need you to be happy.”

Colin holds his gaze for a few seconds, eyes narrowed. “Yeah,” he says slowly, looking back down again and leaning forward to press a soft kiss to the bitemark on Louis’ shoulder. “It’s not just to accommodate,” he adds after a bit, “it does turn me on. It really does.”

“Does it hurt, too?”

Colin’s lips still at the top bone of Louis’ spine. He noses into the hairs on the nape of his neck. “I don’t think so,” he murmurs, “not if I’m sure what it is.” He takes the towel Louis’ still holding up loosely, closes it tighter around him as he hugs him from behind and breathes him in, “if I’m sure I’m the only one that has you. Really has you.”

“You are,” Louis says, squeezing his wrist, “you are, you always are, you’re— you’ve always been that. I couldn’t ever feel anything that was like what you and I—”

“Let’s go to  bed, yeah?” Colin interrupts, “talk about it in the morning.” 

“Okay,” Louis says, glancing at himself and the line of worry between his brows in the mirror one last time, before he turns and follows his husband to bed.

 

*

 

Saturday morning, the worst of Louis’ heat seems to have dulled down. He’s still horny when he wakes, but that could easily be attributed to the fact that he’s got Colin’s boner nestled between his arse-cheeks, twitching and growing every time he rolls his hips backwards.

He shifts around carefully, tips his still asleep husband onto his back and then crawls under the covers, getting hold of his dick. It’s an easy glide as Louis starts to jerk him, cock covered in his own slick, but Louis wants to give him more than that. He puts it in his mouth.

Soon as he does, Colin grunts, hips snapping up, one hand coming down to slap at Louis’ shoulder.

“Fuck, what…” he murmurs, waking up. Louis considers popping off just to avoid the risk of Colin fucking right up into his teeth or something tragic, but then Colin slaps the covers off to look at him and gives a raspy chuckle. “Good-morning to you too, love.”

Louis gives a thumbs up and a strained smile around his dick, then goes back to work.

It doesn’t take him long to get Colin over the edge with his mouth. When they first met, Louis was fifteen and Colin eighteen, and Colin had had this ridiculous idea engraved in his mind that waiting until Louis’ sixteenth birthday to have sex was the most romantic thing in the world. Also the most legal, come to think of it. Needless to say, they both got a fuckload of practice in the oral-department that year.

His mouth knows Colin’s cock like the back of his hand at this point.

That’s why it surprises him quite a lot, that when Colin comes he grabs Louis by the back of the hair, hard, and keeps him down, has him spluttering and choking as he comes down his throat.

When he finally lets Louis pop off, coughing and crying, he’s flushed a deep dark red all the way down his chest.

“Fuckin’ hell, Col,” Louis cough-chuckles, wiping his mouth with the back of his hands, “think you just ripped out ten percent of my hair there.”

Colin just laughs through pants and throws an arm over his eyes like he can’t talk right now.

Louis leaves him to it, going off to put the kettle on and feed Betty, then to the loo to brush the cummy taste off his tongue and take all his pregnancy-preventing pills. When he comes back, Colin’s still lying exactly where he was before, except now, at least, he’s got his eyes open.

“If you really want to do it again, you can,” Colin says, as Louis skillfully avoids the dried-up come-spot on his side of the bed and cuddles up to him.

Louis noses into the faint black hairs on his chest. “Really want what?”

“Him.”

Louis stills. He looks up. Colin’s already looking down at him, smile soft, affectionate.

“If you want to,” he says, fixing Louis’ fringe out of his eyes for him, “I mean— I have some boundaries, of course. But I don’t want to keep you from something that gives you a kind of pleasure I can’t ever give to you.”

“No, Colin—”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Colin cuts through quickly, “you don’t have to look like that, sweetheart, I didn’t mean it in a bad way. I just mean— I’m not pitying myself or trying to trick you into feeling guilty about anything. I know what I give to you, I know you love me. But I can be pragmatic about these things. I want you to have everything you want.”

“I _have_ everything I want right here.”

Colin sighs, closed-lipped smile widening. “I can’t give you the kind of… I mean, I can’t even smell whatever it is that gets you or him going mental with it like you do. It fascinates me like crazy, and I wish I could, but… you know, I can’t. And at the end of the day, I’m all right with that. He can’t give you the kind of love you and I give each other. I can’t give you the kind of raw animal-fucking that he can.”

“Say that to the fistful of hair you ripped from my scalp ten minutes ago,” Louis snorts.

Colin grins, reaching down to pinch his cheek. Louis bites out at his finger, but misses. Colin rakes a hand through his hair.

“I remember when we’d first moved in together,” Louis says after a while, pensive, “you said you respected open relationships that worked well, but you couldn’t fathom how they ever did it.” He looks up again. “You couldn’t understand how someone could know the one they loved were out making love to someone else.”

“Yeah,” Colin hums, nodding slowly, “I suppose I’m older now. Less of a romantic.”

“How so?”

“I realised, around the much belated time I also realised that Santa wasn’t real and that women’s ideal man had switched from Romeo to Christian Grey, that all sex isn’t lovemaking.” He shrugs a shoulder. “All I’m saying is, it clearly isn’t about what it’s about with us. With you and Harry, it’s rough and wild, it’s in your nature, it’s not to do with anything going on up here,” he says, tapping his temple, “it’s just sex. Right?”

“Right.”

Colin nods, small grin tugging at his lips. “And… if I’m being honest, I may or may not have imagined what you and him were like yesterday. When he marked you up like that,” he admits, “reckon I got a bit carried away with it.”

“Wait,” Louis pushes off him, hitching himself up on one elbow, “ _that’s_ why you used my throat like a fuckin’ fleshlight before?”

Colin fails at repressing a laugh. “Perhaps.”

“Oh my god.” Louis slaps him over the chest, “here I was, thinking I’d outdone myself at sucking dick and you were just fantasizing about bloody Harry.”

“And you,” Colin corrects, grinning, “Harry and _you_. Together. Not just—”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s all the same, you perverted cunt.”

Colin laughs, then puts Louis in a headlock and wrestles him down to his chest. Louis fights it for a bit, then gives in and settles down on him again.

They lie for a while, Colin staring at the ceiling, Louis at his own finger as he traces circles around Colin’s chest.

“Well,” Louis says after a while, “I mean, I do enjoy the sex with him. Obviously, I do. And it doesn’t make it worse that you find it hot too.”

“Well, thanks.”

“But… I don’t want to get it wrong. I don’t want to do anything that makes you uncomfortable, ever. Even if just a little bit, I— I’d rather not do it at all, then. Hurting you, any amount, is a _much_ bigger sacrifice for me to make than to give up sex with Harry. Seriously.”

“Well,” Colin sighs, “the most important thing for me is the mental aspect. As long as it’s only sex, and just when it’s convenient and you guys need it and we’re always honest and open about it, it doesn’t hurt me. I’ll be all right, then.”

Louis nods, slowly. “Only honest, open convenience-sex,” he echoes.

“And I’m your main man,” Colin grins, “he’s just the side hoe.”

“Side hoe Styles. Got it.”

 

*

 

Nothing comes of it for a while. Colin and Louis don’t speak about it in depth again and Louis is busy for the next week, catching up with work and meetings he’d put off while in heat. He does throw Harry a text, though, informing him that he’s taken his morning after pill. He considers sending another, just saying thanks for the new phone and, in a moment of insanity, adding that he’s regularly on birth control now, too. In the end, he decides to wait until Harry’s texted him back before doing so.

Which results in no contact at all.

He ends up going to the lad’s flat again on a Monday, because he’s got to see his mates. He’s got to see his mates. If Harry just so happens to be around, well so be it. Louis can’t control the fact that he lives there now.

Or doesn’t.

“He’s gone off,” Niall tells him when he ever so casually inquiries as to why he can’t sniff up the stench of Harry the second he walks into the flat.

“ _Gone off_?” Louis echoes.

Niall swallows down the crumpet he was eating, and yet somehow still manages to sound like he’s got three of them stuck in his gob when he speaks again; “left two days ago.”

“What?”

“He left,” Niall says, swallowing twice, “two days ago.”

“Yeah, I got that part,” Louis hisses, “but why, and where to, is my question?”

“That’s two questions,” Niall notes.

Just as Louis’ about to rip even more hair out of his poor scalp, Zayn comes padding in. “He went to L.A.,” he mutters, heading straight for the fridge, “friend’s birthday party.”

“Oh. Is he coming back or—”

Zayn shrugs a shoulder. “Who knows with him.”

Louis nods. Okay. Okay. So Harry’s just gone. Just like that, he’s gone again.  It isn’t like he’s ever been a consistent part of Louis’ life, not for years anyway. It isn’t like Louis hadn’t expected for him to leave again much sooner than he did this time around. It just feels so abrupt. Just tugs at something inside him, something in his core, makes him feel betrayed in the stupidest, stupidest way.

But, they’d _tied_.

“I mean, he left all his shit here,” Zayn drawls after he’s had a minute-long gulp right out of a milk-carton, “but again, you never know with him.” He puts the milk down and then turns around, looking Louis over. “Why?” he asks, “did he fuck you and never call you back?”

And— what. “ _No_!” Louis exclaims, “what are you, why would you even— _what_?”

“I don’t know, mate, I was just asking cause you look all— scorned in the face.”

Louis slaps himself in the face. “I do not,” he says, offended and flushed, “fuck off, I was just happy to be free of the stench in here for once.”

Niall farts.

 

*

 

Despite knowing where he’s gone off too - Liam seems to be the only one who heard Harry when he said he was going to _New York_ , not L.A., and staying for a while, even though he apparently said it to everyone at the dinner table - nobody knows when exactly he’ll be back. So, everyone goes on with their lives just like they did before.

Louis gets more work done on his book in three days than he has in all the time Harry’s been back in London. Colin and Louis celebrate their anniversary with a nice dinner and hotel overnighting. Liam hangs out with Viv one day and gets horribly bullied by the rest of the lads because, like a true ten-year-old, he won’t admit he likes her. Everything is back to normal. Everything’s bloody brilliant, really.

Until, of course, one night in bed two weeks later, Louis finally receives a text back from Harry.

**herald - waiting in airport bored :( how are you?**

Colin’s in the shower and Louis doesn’t know what to do with this. In the end, he just sends back **who the fuck is this? Please stop constantly texting me.**

He receives back;

**herald - I’m reading a shit book right now.**

And when Louis sends him a polite **k** back in return, he sends a picture. It’s a picture of a bookpage. Louis puts on his reading glasses. It’s a picture of a bookpage from _Louis_ ’ book.

‘ _When I tell people I’ve never been with an alpha before, one of the most common responses I get is; ‘well, then you can’t know you don’t like it’. I have omega friends who have never before had sex with a non-alpha and they are never asked anything of the sort. Their choices in partners are instantly accepted and never questioned, not because they genuinely mean what they say when they say they love who they’re with, but rather because they’ve been lucky enough to happen to love someone who fits society’s idea of who they’re supposed to love. Fact of the matter is, I can love my partner and know that I won’t ever want anybody else, and that shouldn’t be questioned just because I’m “supposed” to want someone of another breed._ ’

Underneath the picture he’s added the crying laughing emoji and the words **good stuff this**.

Louis nearly smashes his second phone in less than a month that night.


	9. Chapter 9

Exactly three and a half weeks after Colin and Louis came to their ‘agreement’, Louis steps into the lad’s flat and smells it; Harry is back. He hasn’t had any sort of communication with Harry since the texts that almost made him break his brand new iPhone. He hasn’t really thought much about Harry at all since, to be honest.

To be even more honest, the previous sentence was a complete lie. He has. He has thought about Harry. Some parts of him more than others.

The smell of him back in the flat now is a lot to take in so suddenly, though. Hits almost as hard as the first time, gets him all dizzy with it for a second. He considers, strongly, to turn around and leave again, get out of here before he makes a fucking fool of himself. But then, he’s already unleashed Betty and she’s already running through the hall and into the other room, making sure not a living soul in the building misses the fact that her and Louis are here.

“Lou-eeeeh!” Zayn drawl-yells from the livingroom.

“Betty!” Niall yells too, overlapping and drowning out the rest of whatever Zayn is saying.

“Get in here and join us, mate!” Liam yells.

Harry doesn’t yell anything, but his rusty drawl is unmistakable as he starts to babytalk Betty.

Louis sucks in a deep breath through his nostrils, some ridiculous attempt at taking in as much of Harry’s scent at once as possible and thereby, maybe, making himself immune to it. Then he walks into the livingroom. His plan is a fiasco. He isn’t immune to it. He isn’t immune to anything at all. Not Harry’s scent, not Harry’s body in a tight white t-shirt and black trackies, not Harry’s fucking face.

“Hey,” he croaks, waving awkwardly at no one in particular.

The lads are all sprawled out in the couch-area, watching a woman scream as she attempts to pull her bloody hands out of some sort of glass-chamber. Liam’s lying on the corner-couch, taking the entire thing up by himself. Niall and Zayn are in the middle-one, feet up on the coffee-table, and Harry is in the one across from Liam’s, sitting halfway up as he scratches a hysterically happy Betty.

“Hey, mate,” Harry says, smiling up at him quickly, before Betty bites his finger for not giving her attention for one single second, “I’ve missed you, girl, yes I have, yes I have, I’ve missed you, you little grrrrr…. grrr…”

Louis turns away from that whole… thing.

“What are we watching?” he asks a half-asleep Liam.

“The Jigsaw-thingies.”

Zayn groans exasperatedly. “ _Saw_ , Liam. Just Saw. Not Jigsaw, not hacksaw, not bloody bearclaw. Just _Saw_.”

“Jesus Christ, relax, it’s the same thing.”

“It’s not the fucking same, Liam, if it were they’d have called the movies Saw _slash_ Jigsaw, but they fucking haven’t, have they?!”

“Aaanyway,” Niall cuts through, smiling widely, “half-annual Saw-marathon today. Join.”

Louis glances over at Harry. He’s got his eyes on Betty still, scratching lazily behind her ears at she’s relaxed down on his chest, but his nostrils are flared, his cheeks a pinkish shade. There’s a sheen on his lips, like he’s just licked over them.

He licks them again now.

“Right,” Louis blurts, ripping his gaze off of _that_ , “wicked.”

He jumps over the back of the middle couch and forces his fat arse down between Niall and Zayn, who both moan loudly about the fact that he could’ve taken any of the two one-man occupied couches instead. He scolds himself for not having shoved himself in beside Liam, but it’s too late now and he isn’t getting up again, he isn’t throwing his nose around this stinking room again.

Harry seems grateful, letting out a ridiculously loud breath of air after what feels like an entire minute.

 

*

 

The Saw-marathon was apparently induced early this half-year by the fact that the lads all got pissed last night. Harry came back with a gigantic Jack Daniels-bottle from the airport and Niall finally managed to get everyone in on a game of The House of Horan, his self-made drinking boardgame.

“Still don’t get a single one of the playing rules,” Zayn says, “but it got me drunk, so… there’s that.”

“And ‘that’ is, essentially, the most important aspect of the game,” Niall says wisely, “besides, at least you didn’t drunk bootycall your bird and then somehow manage not to fuck her when she said yes and came round.”

If Louis was unsure as to who he’s referring to, Liam groaning loudly and dropping his face into his hands is enough of an answer.

“What happened there?” he asks, sadistically happy to see people aside from himself fucking up.

“Nothing,” Liam grits.

“Exactly,” Harry drawls, and Niall goes off like a machine gun, laughing.

“Fuckin’ knob got Viv to come over at  _two am_ , took her to his room and then played fucking scrabble with her till they fell asleep,” Zayn explains, shaking his head as he talks, “can’t believe this guy.”

Louis glances over at Liam, studying him. He’s put his gaze back on the telly-screen, and pointedly doesn’t move it off there again until he dozes off five minutes later. Louis doesn’t pester him about it, because it seems like everyone else have already done enough of that. Instead, he turns back to the telly too and watches the actual movie.

For a while, until he dozes off too, three movies later.

 

* 

 

When he wakes, he feels notably more comfortable than he before, much more leg-space. There’s a crampish band around his right arm, though. He grunts, writhing unhappily, slaps a hand at the thing on his arm and realises what it is; another hand. He blinks his eyes open.

“Wha’?” he rasps, shifting backwards on the couch, Harry’s hand gliding off him.

“Just wanted to say,” Harry mutters, “Niall and Zayn have left for the pub to meet with some friends, but they’re bringing back food for us after. We weren’t sure whether you were eating here or at home, but, like… yeah, so. You should text them not to buy for you if you’re going home for dinner.”

Louis nods, a little dazed from just waking up still. From Harry standing so close to him still, crotch right in face-height. He pulls himself up by the backrest to sit. “Where’s Liam?” he asks just to say something.

“Gone to bed,” Harry says, and yeah, Louis knew that already.

“Where’s Betty?”

Harry, who’s stepped backwards a little, and is flicking around on his phone now, mutters; “went to sleep with Liam. She likes it between his legs. S’warm.” He grins at Louis.

Louis looks away, throwing a hand through his sleep-rumpled hair. “I’ll eat here,” he says, because Colin’s working late today and he doesn’t like eating alone, and Niall has a psychic ability to bring home just the right take-out food without having to be told, “where’d I put my bloody phone...”

Harry takes another step back and nods at the coffee-table, right in front of Louis’ face. Right.

He ignores Harry’s prickish little nose-chuckle and picks the phone up, only to realise he’s forgotten to charge the stupid thing and it’s died on him while he was sleeping. “Brilliant.”

“What?”

“Wanted to tell Colin I was eating here, but…” But it doesn’t matter anyway. Not like he’s going to be home to notice Louis gone. “Never mind.”

“No, hey, you can borrow my charger,” Harry says.

“Oh. Cheers, mate.”

“No worries.” Harry smiles, then starts to walk backwards toward the hall, “come on, then” he says, nodding his chin up for Louis to follow.

Louis frowns. “What do you mean?”

“S’up in my room,” Harry says, “the charger. So. You have to come.” The crook of his mouth quirks up and he arches his brows a little, “up to my room. To get it.”

And— well. God, it’s hot in here.

They climb the ladder wordlessly, Harry first, even though he stops and gestures for Louis to go before him, but Louis refuses. Fuck it if he’s going to have Harry’s face right up in his arse like that. He’ll only smell the slick that’s accumulating there, worse and worse the closer they get to Harry’s loft-nest of stench.

“Bloody hell, don’t you ever air out up here?” Louis gasps when he reaches up there.

It smells so much like Harry that he thinks he can taste it, too. God, he isn’t sure Harry’s changed the sheets since Louis was last up here. Louis wouldn’t put it past him not to. He’s cleanly, sure, but he’s filthy too, so fucking nasty he’d keep cum-sheets just to sniff them when he wanks off in the evening.

God, Louis’ going out of his mind.

“It’s in here somewhere,” Harry mutters, rummaging through a big leather duffel, and it takes Louis a second to comprehend his words.

There’s a trickle of sweat running down his spine. He wants to shrug out of his hoodie, but the t-shirt he’s got on underneath is white, fabric thin enough that Harry would be able to see how hard his nipples are.

Louis crawls up on Harry’s mattress, and well, he _has_ changed the sheets after all, no cumstains in sight. They still smell too much like him, though, still make every instinct in Louis’ body scream for him to bury his nose here, rub himself off in them.

“Not that,” Harry says, loud and exaggerated enough to catch Louis’ attention. He’s still searching through the big bag, but he’s thumped something down on the carpet behind himself.

It’s a book. Louis looks closer. It’s _his_ book.

“Ah, I see you’ve got better taste than I remembered,” Louis says, and Harry chuckles. Louis resists the urge to bore his finger into the dimple that pops out on his cheek, picking the book up instead. “How’d you get hold of this?”

“Not every easily,” Harry snorts, “can’t find it fuckin’ _anywhere_. It’s almost as if no one cares what this little fuckhole on legs has to say.”

Louis’ lips drop apart.

Harry looks up at him. “I’m kiidding,” he says, face breaking into a big grin, “Louis, they sell your book bloody everywhere, I picked it up at J.F.K.” He pulls the iPhone-charger out of the bag, “phone.”

Louis hands the phone over silently and watches Harry as he plugs it into his power-strip. His hair is slowly, but surely escaping the elastic band he had it tied up in, gliding in long wavy strands down his neck.

“Not too bad, really,” Harry mutters, and Louis jolts in his seat, because he’d forgotten for a split-second that Harry could talk as well as be painfully good to look at, “your book. I mean parts of it were— but your writing is just… not that I’d expected it to be shit, I mean I know how sharp your mind is, but still. Good read, yeah. Definitely. Nice airport-entertainment.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Louis says, chucking the book at him. It hits his shoulder and he spends just enough time rubbing the ‘sore spot’ and fake-moping to miss the brief flush of Louis’ cheeks. 

Harry comes crawling over to lie beside him then, and Louis hurries to scoot backwards, so far he nearly slips off the edge of the mattress. He tips onto his stomach to avoid doing so. He looks over at Harry, as he lies half-propped up against a pillow, big hands folded over his stomach, tongue darting out to lick over his plump pink lips.

He closes his eyes.

“You tired still?” Harry asks after a moment, voice so unexpectedly soft that Louis’ gut does this terrible little loopy thing.

“Bit,” he murmurs.

Harry hums in response, just before one of his big hands comes to pat Louis’ shoulder. It’d seem innocent, a sweet little _good nap, then_ sort of thing. It would have, if his hand hadn’t stilled, just for a second too long, when his knuckles brushed over the bare skin of Louis’ neck.

Louis peeks an eye open. Harry’s sniffing his fucking knuckles.

He sees Louis see it. He pretends not to be fazed by being caught out, but the crock of his mouth twitches nervously. Louis arches a brow at him and Harry rasps, “wha’?” like he doesn’t know it. Like he doesn’t know they both know he knows it.

Louis rolls his eyes and closes them.

A second later, Harry’s fingers come to prod at him again. This time he isn’t nearly as timid as before, this time he moves like he’s got permission. He touches on Louis’ throat, his jawline, the side of his neck, tugs impatiently on his hoodie to see more skin.

Then he starts to shift downwards, and Louis’ stomach swoops stupidly.

He keeps still, though, doesn’t open his eyes again, not even when Harry lays an arm over his back, a leg over the back of his own.

When Harry’s tongue suddenly flattens out up the side of his face, he puffs out a shaky breath. Harry stills, just for a second, then continues, licking a fat stripe up to Louis’ temple.

“You look cute in this hoodie,” he murmurs, before tugging roughly at it, getting it halfway down one of Louis’ shoulders so he can press his nose into the crook of his neck. Louis whimpers despite trying to fight himself, and tilts his head back, bares his throat for Harry.

Harry groans, breathes him in and starts to lap at his skin, fast hungry licks up to the shell of his ear, down to his collarbones and then up again.

“You haven’t been touched by one,” he says, and it sounds like he’s talking to himself more than Louis, but when he grunts and shifts onto Louis, gets a hold of his jaw and looks down at him, he goes on to say; “you haven’t, have you? You don’t smell like it. You haven’t been touched by any other alpha since—”

“No.”

Harry growls, nostrils flaring right out. “No,” he agrees, then reaches both hands down and yanks Louis’ thighs further apart, grinds down between them, “no, you haven’t.”

He surges down again, starts to teeth at Louis’ neck, but just as Louis locks his thighs around him and claws at his back, he pulls back again, eyes wide, worried, even as they’ve already gone near-black with arousal. “I don’t— what’s he say? Colin. Fuck, I want to, but I don’t want— he’s such a nice guy.”

“Yeah,” Louis pants, frustrated with how bad he wants, _needs_ , how hard it suddenly is, just to talk, “yeah yeah, it’s all right. It’s all right. He wants me to do. You. It’s all right, he said. If it’s just you. If it’s just sex.”

Harry studies him for another moment, eyes narrowed. “So, he’s all right with it?”

“Yeah.” Louis swallows. “Yeah, he said you and I could. We could fuck. Yeah.”

“Are you lying?”

“ _What_?!” Louis exclaims, slapping at his chest, “no I’m not lying, you bloody idiot. Call him up and ask, he said it was okay,” he goes on, and when Harry’s gaze doesn’t soften yet, “you know what, never mind this. If you’re gonna look at me like that, makin’ me feel fuckin’ guilty about it, then I don’t want it anyway.”

He pushes at Harry’s chest, but Harry just takes him by the wrists and presses them down into the mattress. “Hey,” he says, expression firm, “just look me in the eye and promise me I’m not getting into some horrible shitty cheating-stuff that I didn’t ask to be part of.”

“You’re not, he said it was okay,” Louis hisses, “but get the fuck off now, you’ve ruined it. The moment’s gone, you’ve—”

“You’re so hot when you’re angry.”

Louis tries to wrestle a wrist free so he can slap the stupid grin off Harry’s face, but it’s no use. Harry fastens his grip and then grinds down again, dragging moans from them both as their cocks rut together through the fabrics of their trousers.

He does it again, and again, and Louis arches off the bed, tries to rub his arse back on the mattress and simultaneously snap his hips up to meet Harry’s.

Harry’s hair has fully loosened from the elastic now, hanging down one side of his face, and he keeps having to puff it out of his eyes. He lets go of one of Louis’ wrists to push it back and Louis reaches right down, grabbing hold of his tight little arse to steer the grind of his hips.

“God, you’re so fucking wet,” Harry groans, face pushed down by Louis’ ear again, damp lips parted around the shell of it. “Can’t even feel it yet, but you smell so obscene. I could just, _ungh_ , I could just slide right into you.”

“Why don’t you, then?” Louis breathes, getting his other hand free and using it to smooth sweaty little curls back from his forehead for him. “Don’t you want it?”

“I’ve had your arse,” Harry says hoarsely.

“You’ve had it twice,” Louis agrees, “you don’t want it anymore?”

Harry lifts up to look down at him, a possessive little furrow between his brows. “Had it _three_ times,” he says childishly.

“All right, all right, my apologies,” Louis grins, “three times, then.”

Harry doesn’t reciprocate the smile, just reaches down and pads a finger over Louis’ lips.

Then he pulls back entirely.

Louis almost whines at the loss of his wide warm weight on him, frowns unabashedly up at Harry. Harry throws a hand through his long hair and then reaches back, pulling his t-shirt off. Louis cups himself, taking in the look of his naked torso, firm and wide and strong under black ink. He looks so different to the Harry that he knew as a kid, all pudge, loopy hair and flushed cheeks.

Well, his cheeks still flush.

He licks over his lip, then starts to crawl up Louis’ body, not stopping until he’s straddling his chest.

“What are you doing?”

Harry’s nostrils flare out again, and he’s looking at Louis’ face, but not really his meeting his eyes. He pulls his dick out of his trackies, big and fat and precome-slick, knot swollen at the base of it. He slides a big hand under the back of Louis’ head, tilting it up and says; “cover your teeth.”

“Oh,” Louis just manages to say, before Harry’s prodding his cockhead at his mouth.

He fucks the whole head in at once, and is lucky Louis covers his teeth fast, because otherwise it would’ve gotten quite a mess with how roughly he thrusts in further. He stops to check that Louis’ all right a few times, but mostly he just holds him by the back of the head, fucking him till he gags every time, then pulling out a little, starting up again.

By the time he finally pulls his entire cock out again, Louis’ lips feel numb, stretched too far for too long, and he’s got tears streaking his cheeks.

“You all right?” Harry asks, looking down at him with darkened eyes as he jerks his big dick.

“Yeah,” Louis rasps, sniffling.

“Can you,” Harry mutters, nudging his balls at Louis’ mouth.

Louis nods pliantly and starts to lick at Harry’s balls, reveling in the hiss he makes.

“Down,” Harry says suddenly, “okay, down, I’m gonna come on you.”

He pats the mattress impatiently and Louis lies down, Harry standing over his chest, knees pressed down by his ribs, jerking himself with fast little twists of his wrist. He throws his head back as he comes, groaning loudly, streaking Louis’ collarbones and throat, his lips and jaw.

“Good, you’re so— _ungh_ , you’re so good,” he babbles, swiping the head of his cock over Louis’ lips again, pushing in between them, cupping his balls and jerking the last few spurts of come down Louis’ tongue. “Fuck, you look— God, you’re fuckin’ covered in me.”

Harry slaps his spent cock off on Louis’ mouth, then shifts off of him and rolls away.

He rolls back again with a towel, chuckling as he starts to wipe Louis off. “Was that okay?” he asks quietly, and Louis just nods, grinning a little.

He isn’t sure what to say. In the end, he just lands on; “finish me off, then.”

Harry tugs Louis’ jeans down, curls two fingers into his wet hole and kisses him until he comes up his own stomach, hands twitching around Harry’s biceps.

Afterwards, he cleans Louis up again, then rolls onto his stomach like he had that first morning after he’d knotted Louis, face sideways in the pillow, eyes fluttering closed.

“That was quite the mouth-fucking,” Louis notes, moving his jaw around to see that it still functions regularly.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Louis mutters, pulling himself up to sit, “it’s all right, it was—” hot. It was really fucking hot, “all right.”

“Think your phone’s come back to life,” Harry drawls, “have a look.”

With a groan, he throws himself over Harry’s body, reaching out just far enough that his fingertips catch on the bottom of his phone. He hauls it in.

**Colin <3 - got off early. On my way home with Chinese. Love you**

“Piss,” Louis hisses, just before the front door slams open downstairs, and Niall and Zayn’s noises topple inside, Betty starting to bark, running for them. “ _Piss_.”

He yanks his trousers back up and begins to zip them. Harry peeks an eye at him. “Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“But the food people are here,” he argues, small grin tugging at his lips.

Louis jabs him in the dimple, hard enough that he whines and clutches his cheek, pouting.

“Colin’s home early, apparently,” he mutters, inspecting his hoodie for cumstains. “I wanna be home before he is, I promised I’d do the dishes, but I thought I had time and—”

Harry shifts up on one elbow. “Why d’you sound so nervous suddenly?” he exclaims, “did you lie to me before? Did you, is he not—”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. “Why’ve you got to be so bloody difficult?” Louis sighs, “call him up if you want, he’ll tell you I’m not lying.” He hesitates for a moment, then goes on, because he’s annoyed at how nice and warm and snuggly Harry looks right now; “and now you’ve had all my holes, you won’t have to worry anymore, innit? Like you said.”

“What the fuck,” Harry drawls, “are you on about.”

“Doesn’t matter, never mind.”

Louis turns to crawl toward the latter, but Harry has him collapsed, face down in the foot of the mattress, with one sharp tug of his ankle.

“Louis. I drive my car every single day.”

Louis stills, just out of pure confusion. “Wha’?”

Harry sighs, plopping onto his back. “I drive my car every single day,” he says, “and just cause I’ve driven it so many times before doesn’t make me want to drive it any less again.”

It takes a moment before Louis gets what he’s trying to say. “Hang on, are you comparing me to your fucking car right now?”

Harry grins. “Would you rather I compare you to a summer’s day?”

“I’m leaving.”

This time, Harry doesn’t try to stop him. He does ask, just before Louis reaches the ladder; “so if I called Colin right now and asked about this thing, what would he tell me?”

Louis stills again. He bites his lip for a moment, then says, without turning, “he’d tell you I’m allowed to have my fun whenever it’s convenient. As long as it stays that; convenient fun.”

“Convenient fun,” Harry echoes, like he’s mulling over it, “does that mean you’re on the pill or will I have to keep fucking your mouth whenever we engage in… convenient fun?”

Louis flips him off over the shoulder.

“But yes,” he mutters, beginning to climb down the ladder, “I am on the pill now.”

“Brills.”

“Ew.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas :)

In the beginning, it’s very random, weeks passing between anything at all. In the beginning, it’s a big deal every time it does happen. Harry gives Louis a rushed handjob in the bathroom and Louis goes straight home, explaining in graphic detail to a bright-eyed Colin, often re-enacting the entire experience on him.

After a while though, Louis isn’t sure when or how, it stops being so. It becomes a sick sort of normal.

He wouldn’t say it was necessity, because in saying so, he’d be breaking every rule he and Colin set up before it started. He never goes more than a week without hooking up with Harry, though, even if it’s just a quick dry-hump or a little snog-session without intent. If he goes by the lad’s flat and doesn’t end up in Harry’s bed, just for a little bit, he feels off after, like he’s wasted an opportunity, like he’s forgotten something back there even though he has everything he needs here at home.

He stops telling Colin about it. If Colin asks, he gets an honest answer to everything he wants to know, but more often than not, Colin doesn’t ask, and Louis doesn’t bring it up.

He isn’t even sure anymore, whether Colin knows the frequency of his and Harry’s hook-ups.

Sometimes, like when he comes home with lovebites up his neck, waggling terribly, he’s certain Colin can’t _not_ know. Others, he almost thinks Colin’s resigned himself to believing the interest’s died out by itself and it’s ended ages ago. In those moments, he does think about bringing it up, just to be sure they’re still on the same page, but then Colin wraps an arm around his shoulders and kisses his hair and flicks on the telly, or starts to rant about his awful day at work and it just doesn’t feel like the right time.

And, well, maybe there’s a part of him he doesn’t like to dwell on too much, that likes the idea of keeping what he and Harry have just that; something _he and Harry_ have.

So, he gets a bit of a shock when, one evening in bed, Colin murmurs; “tell me what he does to you.”

They’ve just turned the lights off, and are lying in the dark, Colin on his back, Louis on his side, jerking Colin’s dick.

“What?” Louis breathes, pulling back slowly.

“Tell me what he does,” Colin repeats, “what’d he do today? How’d he fuck you?”

Louis pulls back further. “What do you mean, ’today’?”

Louis and Betty did pop by the lad’s flat, completely innocently and at Niall’s request, to test out Harry’s new pancake recipe. Afterwards, Louis and Harry did slip up to the loft-room for blowjobs and rimming, but they were downstairs again within fifteen minutes and Louis isn’t even sore from the two-finger fucking Harry gave him while he licked out his hole.

He can’t see how Colin could’ve possibly known.

“Today, as in, when you were over there earlier today,” Colin says, taking over for Louis’ slack hand, jerking himself. His gaze glides up and down Louis’ face, smile slowly fading off his own. “You really don’t think I can tell?”

No, Louis thinks, he hadn’t thought— well. He hadn’t thought of it much at all lately. Possibly, he’d been avoiding doing so by choice. “I don’t…”

“Course I can tell,” Colin says, and he’s stopped jerking off now, fingers stilling over his own stomach, threading together, “I can _smell_ him on you.”

Louis’ eyes narrow. “Are you—”

“Uncomfortable with it?” Colin asks, “no,” he huffs, but the chuckle that comes with is cold, mocking, “just don’t go around thinking I’m some oblivious fucking idiot.”

“Colin, I didn’t—”

Colin sighs, hand coming over to lay atop of Louis’. “I know,” he says, eyes softening up, “I know. So tell me,” he says, “what’d he do?”

Louis bites the inside of his cheek. “He, ehm… we…” Colin nods, urging him on as he takes his own cock in hand again, starts to stroke it, “we went up to his room. We, ehm… I sucked him off.”  

“Yeah?” Colin says on a little moan, head tilting back, “was he big in your mouth, did he feel—”

“Yeah,” Louis says slowly, “hurt my jaw.”

Colin squeezes the base of his cock. “Yeah, he did, he’s too big,” he moans, “did he come in your mouth?”

“Yeah.”

“Mhm, yeah, course he did. And then you went straight home and kissed me, with his come still on your tongue, didn’t you? You just—”

“Yeah, I came and— fuck, ehm, sorry, I can’t do this right now.” Louis throws a hand through his hair, turning round and getting up. “I’m not in the mood for— yeah. Sorry.”

Colin, who’s still lying on his back, stroking his dick, slow, perfunctory, frowns up at him. “What?”

“What?” Louis echoes, confused with Colin, and himself. Mostly the latter. They’ve done this before, in explicit detail, tons of times, but it’s been a while. It’s just been a while. Now it feels— odd. Wrong. For the first time since they started this thing, Louis feels guilty toward someone other than Colin; he feels it toward Harry. They never talked about this. Harry never actually consented to having his private sexual moments shared with a third person, one he hardly even knows. “I’m, ehm… can you stop jerking off, please, it’s a little distracting.”

Colin takes his hand off of himself, slaps it down on the mattress beside him. “You could’ve just said no,” he says, but the look in his eyes doesn’t exactly solidify his words, “I just thought… fuck it, it doesn’t matter.”

“No, what?” Louis insists, throat lumping up with guilt. This isn’t what this was supposed to be. They’re supposed to be able to talk, always. “What did you think, darling?”

Colin shrugs, smile sardonic. “Thought you were into it too.”

“Oh,” Louis says, shoulders dropping. He bites his lip. “Baby, it’s not like that,” he sighs, “I just don’t like… it just feels off now. We haven’t done this in a while. And you say you can tell when I’ve been with him. That must mean you know how much it’s been going on,” Louis says carefully, padding back to bed, “that must mean you’ve understood it’s become a sort of regular… I don’t know how to put this without sounding horrible.”

Colin shakes his head at his lap, mouth twisting bitterly. “You’ve fallen in love with him.”

“What?” Louis exclaims, stopping stiff on his way across the bed. “ _No_!”

“Then what?”

Louis crawls across to him, puts a finger under Colin’s chin and tips his face up. “I love _you_ ,” he says, dipping in to press a little kiss to his lips, “ _you_. Okay? That’s not going to change. That’s never going to change.”

Colin smiles, eyes wide and earnest, and mouths it back.

“But it’s been a while with this Harry-thing,” Louis says after a moment, pulling himself together, “and the thing is that it’s become a separate thing from the two of us. We haven’t even talked about it at all in a while. It feels odd, telling you about it. He’s a friend and it feels weird at this point, talking about what he does in bed like this when you don’t even know him. When he doesn’t even bloody know we talk about it like we do. He’s not a flippin’ dildo, you know,” Louis adds, and Colin chuckles, finally, untightening the knot in Louis’ stomach, “there’s more to him than his dick, so.”

Colin nods. “Okay. Yeah, I get it.”

Louis looks him over, swiping his thumb over Colin’s chin. “I’ve never done this before either, you know,” he says, “so it’s odd for me too. I’ve always been… private about who I fucked.”

“Cause you’d only ever fucked one person and you were embarrassed,” Colin grins.

“Oh, fuck off.” Louis pinches him. “And now I’ve fucked _two whole people_. I’m practically a professional slut.”

Colin cocks his head back. “I’ve fucked _three_.”

“Oh, please, getting your tip in some girl at fourteen and then going immediately flaccid does _not_ count.”

Colin flips him off. Louis bites his finger. But only the tip of it, so it doesn’t count as domestic violence.

 

*

 

He doesn’t see Harry again for about a week. Then Niall calls him up, reminding him of a ridiculously stupid promise he’d made a while back.

“Do I have to?” he whines on the phone, even though he’s already on the tube.

“Yes, you’re literally the only famous omega we know,” Niall says, “which is fuckin’ depressing considering you aren’t famous.”

“Well, thanks, that makes me want to do it even more.”

“Oh, piss off and get over here. If anything, Harry’s fame might rub off on both us _and_ you.”

He hangs up before Louis has a chance to ask what he meant by that. When he arrives at their flat, Niall is nowhere to be seen, but the rest are. Zayn and Liam are working on - fighting over -  setting up lighting and a camera-stand in front of the corner-couch. They’ve pushed the coffeetable around and up close it, and lined up a whole range of different sex-toys.

“Right, so we’re making porn now?” Louis asks, clapping his hands together and repressing a proud smile when Harry barks a laugh from over at the kitchen island.

“No, it’s just a regular casting, we swear,” Zayn mutters, “oh, and by the way, have you ever tried anal before and do you do arse to mouth?”

Louis laughs and Liam groans in disgust.

“Well, looks like we’re going to have fun today,” Louis says, turning to the kitchen island.

Harry’s sitting on a barstool and Viv’s standing in front of him, an open bag of makeup-shit on the counter. Before, she was just fixing Harry’s hair so as not to make it look quite as greasy as it is. Now, she’s begun applying actual makeup to his face.

“Do the lipstick,” Louis suggests, picking up what looks like a thin elongated lipstick-thingy. When he opens it, it’s some sort of torture device/an eyeliner-pencil. He picks up a mascara-pen instead and starts to apply to his own lashes.

Viv gives him a sideglance. “What the fuck?”

“What?”

“That’s a brow brush,” she says, taking it away from him, “why would you use a brow brush on your lashes?”

“Lou has pretty lashes,” Harry drawls.

“Ain’t gonna get any prettier using a brow brush on them.”

Louis studies the thing. “Why would you even go to the troubles of buying a brush for your bloody brows? Can’t you just use a normal hairbrush?”

Viv drops her face into her hands.

“Ha,” Harry says, doing a coquettish throw of his head, “you’re stupid and ugly and bad at life.”

“He’s got better facial symmetry than you,” Viv mutters matter-of-factly, and Harry shuts up, and Louis laughs at him.

They get powdered and contoured and highlighted and whatever else it is Viv seems to have taught herself off of Kim Kardashian’s snapchat. It takes a while and once they’re done and look themselves in the mirror, they look like one of those ‘The Power of Makeup’-videos that used to pop up on Louis’ Facebook-feed, except only midway through and more drag queeny, but not in the good way.

“Why’ve you put glitter on the bags under my eyes?” Louis asks, poking at his own face.

“To highlight them,” Viv mutters.

“But why would you highlight the bags under my eyes, of all things?”

“Look, mate, I don’t know shit about makeup, Liam just asked me to do it cause they didn’t want to pay for a professional and Zayn wouldn’t admit to knowing how to do it.”

“That’s reassuring,” Louis murmurs, and Harry comes up to his side and shoulder-bumps him.

“We look amazing,” he says, “I mean, more spunky than I’ve had it done for interviews before, but… I suppose promoting sex toys is _meant_ to be spunky, so.”

He gives an exaggerated wink.

“Ew.”

Niall comes out of his bedroom and sets Harry and Louis up for the video while Zayn goes off to the loo to do his own makeup, muttering some lie about needing to look up a YouTube video as he goes.

“Right, Harry, you’re on the right on the couch there,” Niall instructs, “Louis, you’re on the left there, yes, nice. Zayn will be in the middle of you two, so as to avoid any confusion about you two shagging and whatnot. Ehm, and Louis, you’ll be talking about those five different toys in front of you. Harry, you’ll talk about the ones in front of you.”

“All right, yeah, but there’s just this one little issue, mate,” Louis cuts in, “I don’t know shit about these toys.”

Niall snaps his finger at him, then runs off. Louis glances over at Harry, who’s inspecting the toys in front of him. He holds up what looks like a normal fleshlight. When Louis looks closer, it’s an anus, not a vagina.

“My goodness.”

“It’s got a vibrating function,” Harry drawls, poking at the wrinkly silicone-hole.

“Ew, don’t look so enticed.”

“No, please, _do_ look enticed,” Niall says, walking back in with his laptop, “kind of the entire purpose of this video, innit?”

He begins to roll the telly-screen around, getting it up right beside the camera-stand, then crouches down to connect his laptop to it.

“How’s the lube-function work?” Harry asks, still consumed by the anus-toy.

“Oh, it’s like— it’s brilliant, actually,” Niall mutters from where he’s hunched down, fiddling with the chords, “you press the button and this lube comes out. But, instead of regular lube, they’ve made it to have a consistency that feels just like that of an omega’s slick. It’s been tested on a shitload of alpha’s and it’s the best one so far, apparently.”

Harry’s eyes go wide and bright.

Louis picks the toy out of his hand and puts it back on the table.

“All right, what s’it look like, lads?” Niall asks, head ducked down between his shoulders still, “anything on the screen?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, looking at the telly, connected to Niall’s laptop now, “you’ve searched on google, ‘help, I think I might be suffering from binge eating disorder, but I’m skinny and I’m hungry still, what to do???? and I’m Irish’.”

“Oh.” Niall clicks around a bit, opening up a diasshow on PowerPoint. “How’s that?”

“Notes for Harry and... Louise, sextoy video,” Louis reads aloud.

“Great!” Niall claps his hands together and sits back on his bum. “So, I’ll change the slides and you’ll just read aloud the lines that has your colour in it. Harry, you’re the blue, and Louis, you’re the green. Grey are instructions, black is Zayn,” he says, “and through the magic of this little clicker, I’ll be able to control the switch of the slides.”

“You mean the wireless mouse?” Louis asks.

“Why must you ruin all that is enjoyable in life?”

Zayn comes back from the bathroom, made up like a fucking moviestar.

“Okay, why do Louis and I look like we’ve sprayed glue all over our faces and then dipped them in glitter and you look all, like... good and stuff?” Harry asks.

“I don’t know, mate, I guess I’m just a prettier girl than you.”

Harry clutches his heart, emitting a wounded sound. “Hit me where it hurts, you do.”

Louis laughs, and doesn’t miss how Harry’s gaze flicks over to him, just for a second, triumphant.

Liam and Viv arrive back from the shops with batteries for some of the sex toys, because yes, Zayn and Niall remembered everything but that and now they’ll have to hear for it for at least a week, judging by Liam’s expression.

Liam stands behind the camera, Harry and Louis get a quick run-down of their lines and the general functions of the sex toys they’re advertising and then they start filming.

“Hello, Zialler’s,” Zayn says, and Harry immediately asks “what’s a Zialler?”

“- _Cut_!”

“Why the fuck would you ask that?” Zayn groans, “Ziall Toy’s is _literally_ the name of our site, what’s wrong with you?”

Harry lifts both hands in defense, and Louis almost feels sorry for his stupid babyface. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Let’s re-take.”

“Yes. Thank you. Fuckin’ hell.”

They re-take.

“Hello, Zialler’s,” Zayn begins, just a little bit less cheery than the first time, “I’m Zayn Malik and today I’ve got two of my very best friends with me to show you the Alpha-Omega collection, which is available in our shop now, at very affordable prices.”

He pauses to catch his breath, looking relieved to have made it thus far.

“So, here on my left I’ve got my good friend, Harry Styles. Some of you may recognize him from rockband White Eskimo,” he slaps Harry on the back, a little too hard, “hi, Harry.”

“Hi, Zayn,” Harry says, smiling over-exaggeratedly, first at Zayn and then the camera, “hi Zialler’s. I’m Harry Zialles… Styles.”

Liam makes an impatient hand-motion for them to just keep going.

“All right,” Zayn says, voice sharp, irritated, “and on my right I’ve got my other good friend, Louis Tomlinson. Some of you might recognize him as the author of ‘Hi, my name is Omega, I’m Omega’.”

Nobody but Louis seem to realise the fuck-up, so Louis slaps Zayn over the chest and barks out a violent laugh. “Oh, Zaynieboy, you humour me,” he says, shaking his head and grinning, “now, it is ‘Hi my name is Omega, I’m _Louis_ ’.”

“How did you even fit all of that on the cover?” Harry drawls.

Liam makes the hand-motion again and Zayn groans loudly. Liam makes the motion once more.

“So,” Zayn says, straightening up in his seat, slapping Harry on the back again, harder, “Harry. You’re an alpha.”

Harry gives a loud fake laugh. “You bet I am, Zaynie.”

Louis laughs out loud. Liam makes the hand-motion again, so frantically he nearly knocks the camera over.

“You like sex toys, yeah?” Zayn asks, smile strained.

“More than anything else in this life, Zayn, more than anything else,” Harry replies, grave-faced. Louis bites into his lip so hard to keep from laughing that he thinks he draws blood.

There’s an awkward silence, and then Harry realises he’s supposed to check the powerpoint-screen for lines.

“Uhm,” he begins, glancing down at the toys before him and rubbing his hands together like he can’t wait, “here we have the…” his gaze flicks up to the screen again, then down, “Scentifier 2000…” he spends a full minute finding the actual thing.

It’s a spray-bottle. He holds it up for the camera.

“What it is, essentially,” he says, and then giggles at himself, “e- _scent_ -ially.”

Liam makes the hand-motion again.

“What it is,” Harry repeats, “is a spray-liquid, mimicking the scent of an omega in heat. You spray it,” he sprays to demonstrate, then gasps loudly, “and then…” he croaks out, nostrils flaring, “then you, uhm… you— fuck, this shit really works, fuckin’ hell, _shit_ —” he tries to wave it out of his face, but it doesn’t work, and when Zayn realises he’s sporting a boner from one second to the next, they decide to pause the camera for a moment.

Harry goes off to do his thing and Louis inspects his own sex toys, determined not to make as much of a fool of himself as Harry just did. When Harry arrives back, red-faced even though he’s got on three layers of foundation, they resume filming.

Despite being the one with most experience in front of a camera, Harry uses so many takes getting his part of the video done that they have to stop to eat before he’s done. They manage to pull through at some point though, when Louis’ abs ache from laughing every time Harry fucks up, and Zayn is so fed up he’s sweated off all his perfect make up.

“All right, thank you, Harry,” Zayn says, as if they’ve just spent two minutes on him and not three hours, “and you, Louis,” he says, turning to put a hand on the small of Louis’ back, “You’re an omega.”

“You bet your sweet beta arse I am, Zaynieboy,” Louis replies and Harry barks a loud laugh.

It’s worth it, even if Zayn does dig his nails into Louis’ back.

 

*

 

It’s late when they’ve finally wrapped up filming. Louis hasn’t even realised it’s gotten dark outside, or that Viv’s been out walking Betty and fed her. He hasn’t even checked his phone, he’s been too caught up in making a stupid little add-video for Niall and Zayn’s various social media’s. He’d like to think it’s because he’s such a hard worker that he tunes everything else out, but in reality, he’s just had too much fun with it.

His phone is, of course, dead when he pulls it from his coat-pocket out in the hall. Colin would’ve been home about an hour ago and Louis didn’t tell him he was going here today, so he does feel a bit bad, but oh well.

“Hey,” someone says, walking up behind him.  The other’s are yelling and/or scream-laughing from the other room at all the takes they’ll have to cut out of the video before they post it. Harry’s just standing here now, goofy smile playing at his lips, thumbs in his pockets. “You leaving?”

“Yeah,” Louis mutters, eyes on the trainer he’s trying to press his heel into, “gotta get home to the hubster.”

Harry cackles. He’s still standing there, watching Louis, when he finishes putting on his shoes. When he goes and says goodbye to the rest and comes back with Betty in tow, Harry’s put on his shoes too and his pulling on his coat.

“Where are you going?”

“Driving you home,” he says, straight-faced, and then crouches down to leash Betty up.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know I don’t,” Harry says, before he gets up, opens the front door and gestures for Louis to walk through it, raising his brows like _what are you waiting for?_

They don’t talk in the lift. Well, Harry’s in a crouch again, scratching and baby-talking Betty. When in the car, Harry twists the key and the radio comes on, streaming a slow poptune. He doesn’t turn it off again.

“Thanks for driving me, mate,” Louis says on a sigh, as they pull out onto the main road and he rests his head against the window, watching the evening-traffic.

“S’all right,” Harry drawls, hand coming over to nudge the side of Louis’ thigh. It’s a friendly little thing. Until Harry decides it isn’t anymore and lets his big hand splay out on Louis’ thigh, squeezing and then just holding, fingers much too close to Louis’ crotch. It stays there, through the rest of the ride, like it’s taken it’s rightful position, like it’s just allowed to.

Which it is, Louis supposes, since he doesn’t try to move it.

The first time either of them speak again is just after they’ve pulled up out front of Louis’ house. Betty’s asleep in the backseats and Harry turns the key, music stopping abruptly, car going awfully quiet.

“You think he’s home?” he asks.

Louis looks over at him for the first time since they got in the car. He’s looking at the windshield, gaze glazed over. Louis wants to touch a finger to his lightly parted lips, they look so soft. “Yeah,” he says instead, unclicking his seatbelt, “he’s home.”

“Hm.”

“Why?”

Harry drops his gaze, little curl on the crook of mouth. He’s still got his hand on Louis’ thigh. “Nothing.”

“No,” Louis agrees, laying a hand over Harry’s, petting it gently, “no, nothing tonight, H.”

“No.” Harry licks over his lips, then looks right up at Louis, a sudden urgency in his gaze, “when then?” he asks, “just. It’s been a while. I never know when I’m going to get it again.”

“I’m sure you get it elsewhere.”

Harry grins, at little. “It isn’t the same.”

“Why?”

Harry bites the side of his mouth, shrugs a shoulder.

Then he’s coming closer, hand driving up Louis’ thigh, onto his crotch.

“Harry—” Louis protests weakly, but he’s cocking his head back instinctively when Harry comes to nose at his neck. The tip of his nose is cold and Louis’ throat feels terribly hot in contrast, all of him does. He thinks he says no, once, but it drowns in the kiss Harry replies with, and he can’t help but buck his hips up into Harry’s hand when he squeezes him through his jeans.

He registers the click of Harry’s seatbelt, but doesn’t know what to do when Harry’s forcing a knee down between his thighs, getting on top of him.

“Wait, I can’t—” he babbles, “Harry, there isn’t bloody space.” Harry grunts in response, forehead pressed to Louis’ mouth, hand fiddling with something below Louis’ seat. Suddenly, the entire seat tips backwards, so they’re lying halfway down. “ _Fuck_.”

“It’s okay,” Harry says hastily, finding Louis’ mouth again, kissing him quiet.

His mouth is soft, the glide of his tongue, the taste of his spit, the smell of his skin, all too good to let go of, and Louis gets lost in it for a while, clawing lazily at Harry’s back. Harry’s cock presses up against his stomach, so big and hard Louis’ toes curl at the thought of having it in him.

Maybe Harry can read his mind, or maybe - more realistically - he can just smell how much Louis slicked up right then, because he pulls back and grunts, “turn over.”

Louis glances down between them. “How do I—”

It takes too long apparently, the one second of deliberation, because Harry grabs him round the waist and flips him over himself.

“Like that,” he says, shoving his hips up against Louis’ arse, grinding into him. He pushes his nose into Louis’ neck, sniffs him in and licks him while he fiddles with his zip. “Mhm, yeah, like _that_ ,” he groans appreciatively when he gets Louis’ jeans and pants down his arse, runs a thumb down the slick crevice between his cheeks, “fuck, I wanna get in.”

Louis wants to tell him no, and yes, and no, maybe, fuck— he can’t think. He’s whining, arching into Harry.

“Gonna put it in,” Harry warns, voice low and slurred against the nape of Louis’ neck, and then he’s pulled his dick out, lining the head up, “I’m gonna, I’m— Louis, I’m gonna, let me—”

It takes a second for Louis to realise he’s looking for consent and not just letting his filthy mouth run like he always does. “Yes,” Louis gasps, cringing at the sound of his own voice, and then again at the strangled noise he makes when Harry pushes into him, all in one hard shove of the hips.

“Oh _god_ , oh fuck, oh—” he catches a glimpse of Betty in the backseat corner across from him, sleeping peacefully, and a sharp pang of guilt hits him in the gut.

Harry grabs him by both wrists them, folds his arms around the back of the seat he’s pressed into, hisses, “hold onto something” before he grabs the headrest by one hand and Louis’ arse by the other, thrusting hard into him again.

Louis whines into the leather he’s got his face pressed into, eyes screwing shut as he forgets everything else and clutches the seat, lets Harry use his hole like a fucking fleshlight. He’s too big, it’s too good, biting his lip gets painful, clutching the seat isn’t enough, he starts to grunt, groan, loudly.

“Shh,” Harry hisses sharply, and when Louis groans again at the next hard thrust, he lands a stinging smack to his arse, “shh, please, you— _ungh_ , you’ve got to quiet down.”

“Trying,” Louis croaks out, and he thinks he manages, but Harry still gives him another slap over the arse, and another, and another, until Louis starts to come and Harry just digs his nails into the sore fat of it.

“God, I’m gonna have to burn the fuckin’ seat cover,” Harry pants, and Louis gives a breathy laugh against the damp leather under his mouth, delirious with his own orgasm, “you’re all over it,” his palm collides with Louis’ arse once more and Louis winces, “ah, _ah_ , I wanna come in you, can I, I wanna—”

There’s a knock on the window.

Louis snaps his head up and looks directly into Colin’s eyes, entire body going rigid. He doesn’t move, speak, doesn’t take his eyes off of Colin’s, ice-cold shock washing through him.

He should slap back at Harry, say something, scream if necessary, he thinks, until he realises Harry heard it too. Harry’s seen it too, he’s got his head tilted into the window just like Louis, and he’s panting hard, still fucking Louis just as hard. Harder.

Betty’s barking now, jumping at the backseat window, but no one’s paying her any mind, Colin isn’t even knocking the window anymore. Louis can’t tell what he thinks, he can’t— he can’t tell anything, and Harry spanks him again, and again, before he starts to come, inside Louis.

He’s not deep enough that he knots Louis, and Louis thinks it’s intentional, but that scares him too because that means Harry isn’t completely gone with it. Means he knows exactly what he’s doing, when he comes in Louis while Colin watches through a car-window, still, unblinking.

“Fuck,” Louis hisses, when he finally pulls out, come spilling down the seat.

Harry thumps back into the driver’s seat, panting, and Louis yanks his trousers up. He’s still fiddling with the fly when Harry unlocks the doors and Colin goes straight to the back, opening up for Betty, who jumps right into his arms.

“Col—”

The door slams closed again.

“Fuck!”

Louis zips himself up, back of his jeans soaking with come already, and doesn’t spare Harry a look before he’s out of the car, running after Colin. The door gets slammed in his face just as he reaches the front steps, and he rips it right open again, the last thing he hears before he slams it behind himself Harry’s car, driving off.


	11. Chapter 11

“Colin!” he yells out, stumbling into the hall.

He only just catches a glimpse of Colin’s feet at the top of the stairs before he’s gone. Betty comes sprinting right down again, though, as if Louis’ been gone at work all day and just arrived home. She jumps up and down his legs and he gives her a halfhearted scratch behind the ear as he tries to wriggle of his shoes, careful not to mud up the floors in case Colin’s just hoovered or mopped or something. Better not make matters worse than they already are.

“Colin!” he calls out again, once he’s barefoot and taking three steps up the stairs at a time.

He half-runs down the upstairs hall, straight to the bedroom, where the door’s been left ajar.

“Colin,” he says again, out of breath, “darling, you—” he trails off at the sight he’s met with. 

Colin’s sitting on the side of the bed, legs spread, head slumped down between his shoulders, one hand clutching his knee and the other stripping his cock.

Louis goes quiet, watching him panting, work himself like he’s going to die if he doesn’t come in the next minute. Slowly, he closes the door behind himself, leans back against it and starts to fumble with the front of his come-soaked jeans.

Colin’s head snaps up at the sound of his zip. “Don’t.”

“What?” Louis’ hands still immediately.

“Don’t, this, _ungh_ , this isn’t for you, you— you don’t get to,” his voice breaks into a strangled moan as he starts to come, fat blurbs pumping out and sliding down the sides of his hand. He steadies his free hand back on the bed, letting his chin slump to his chest, eyelids drooping.

Louis stands there and watches, quiet, zipper down and jeans still on.

Once Colin comes to, Louis’ gut’s twisted up horribly, he feels guilty and filthy, standing here in wet jeans, watching the hunch of his husband’s shoulders as he takes his sticky hand off his own dick. He doesn’t know what to say. Betty’s barking in the hall, scratching up the door and Colin’s panting still, chest red, lifting and falling so rapidly Louis feels he should say something, ask something, _darling are you all right? Do you need anything, a tissue, a hug, a huge fucking apology?_ But he doesn’t. He just stands there, gawking like a fucking idiot.

In the end, it’s Colin who breaks the silence.

“That was way out of _fucking_  order.”

 _What, you wanking just now?_ Louis almost asks, because Colin’s still got come on his hand and a muscle twitching in his right arm, but he manages to bite his tongue. He knows that’s not what Colin’s talking about and answering to anything else is just deflecting, cowardice.

“Yes,” he says, tipping his head back against the door, carefully, like if he makes too much noise it’ll be an insult to Colin, like he’s supposed to be as still and small and sorry as he possibly can be or he’ll set Colin off into a fury. Which is bloody ridiculous, considering Colin’s never once gone into what any sane person would refer to as a ‘fury’, but then again. Then again, you never know. You never know when your husbands going to turn around on you and have a cuckolding fetish, let alone a secret temper. “I’m really sorry, darling, that was _so_ —”

“Insane,” Colin says, shaking his head, incredulous. He doesn’t look up. He seems to have pinned his gaze to a spot on the carpet, but the set of his jaw says enough that Louis really doesn’t need to see the look in his eyes too. “He’s fucking— _you’re_ fucking insane. Have you got no sense of… I don’t know. Fuck, I don’t know.”

He drops his head down further, rakes a hand up from the nape of his neck through the sweaty layers of his short black hair.

“I, ehm,” Louis says, once he’s sure he isn’t interrupting anything Colin might want to add, “I don’t know what just happened. We weren’t mean to fuck just then. I also don’t— I don’t know what you’re thinking,” he adds, carefully, “I’m not sure where your line goes. I’m not sure when you think it’s all right and hot, and when you think it’s shit and you just hold back on it because you think that’s what you’re supposed to do.”

He stops, looking Colin over. There’s not much of a reaction, except his jaw seems to have untensed, just a little.

“And, ehm—” Louis goes on slowly, “you just have to know that you’re not supposed to do _anything_ when it comes to this. You can say no, you can say stop anytime you want. Then it won’t happen again, ever, I won’t touch him. You’re my husband, you get the final say in this. But if you tell me it’s all right that I have my fun, and you get so turned on by it that you have to— you know, get off before you can think again, then… then I’m not sure what to do with it.”

Colin nods, slowly.

Louis lets out an unsteady breath, tipping his head back again. “I love you and I’m sorry,” he says, “if it hurt you, which it clearly did, then I’m sorry no matter what. I didn’t mean to do anything that you felt wasn’t part of the agreement. The lines just got blurred, I suppose. And it’s hard when— you know, when you get turned on. It’s hard to think straight.”

“You don’t say,” Colin snorts, slapping his come-sticky hand off on his thigh.

Taking a second to wait Colin out, be sure he hasn’t got more to say, Louis finally moves out of his spot, and into the bathroom. He brings back a few tissues for Colin and then begins to draw off his own t-shirt, which is soaked in his come too, of course, and wipes his sticky stomach off. As they’re wiping themselves off, Louis can’t help but give a little chuckle, and Colin joins in.

“We’re fucking pathetic,” Colin grins up at him, eyes sardonic, sweet.

Louis cups the back of his head and leans down to press a kiss to his forehead. “This has been quite the experiment, hasn’t it?”

“Should say so.” Colin tugs Louis’ pants and trousers down for him and Louis knows he’s probably going to have to sneak off to the loo again later to clean himself up properly, but for now, putting on a fresh pair of briefs and crawling into bed with his husband feels like the only right thing to do.

He cradles Colin’s head to his chest, and they lie together for a while, breathing in sync.

“Sometimes I swear my dick and my head are two separate continents,” Colin says at some point, and Louis laughs because, somehow, that’s the most profound thing he’s heard in a while.

 

  
*

 

They talk about it again in the morning. It seems things culminated all at once; Colin had a shit day at work, finding out through a dick of a coworker that several of his alpha-colleagues, doing the exact same job as him, - and doing it worse - were getting paid much more than him. Then he came home, tired and with take-away, looking to let off steam to Louis, get cuddled back down and then watch telly and forget about the world, only to find the house empty and his messages unanswered.

And then, after hours of not getting hold of Louis, not knowing where he was, he saw Harry’s car outside. Parked there for twenty minutes without any sign of movement.

“I knew what was happening,” he tells Louis, sitting in bed Saturday afternoon, eating eggs on toast and watching marathon-telly, “like, I knew you were fucking or something, I knew the second that car stopped and nobody came out of it.”

Louis nods and hums, mouth full of toast.

“And I got so angry, it was like this— this explosion of wrath, but also… I was _so_ hard,” Louis nearly spits toast out of his mouth, laughing, “like… I don’t think I’ve ever been that hard in my life, no offense.”

“None taken.”

“My dick was like a, like a fuckin’— like an iron rod. _So_ hard. Like, so, _so_ —”

“Your dick was hard, I get it, Colin.”

Colin chuckles. “And I just ran down there, and then, when I saw it, I— I can’t even explain. It was like, I’d had all of these images in my head of what it might look like, what you might be doing. I suppose all throughout I’d still thought, in my sensible mind, that you weren’t _actually_ doing it. When I then got to the car and you _were_ , I just—”

Louis glances at him sideways. His cheeks are pink. “Exploded?”  

“Well, not quite, but… wow.” Colin swallows, licking over his lips, eyes big, bright, “fuckin’ hell, Lou. God, he’s— he’s all animal, in’he? _God_ , he’s hot. Fuck.”

Louis barks out a laugh. “Baby,” he reaches across just to pet Colin’s hot-flushed cheek, “you’re so cute.”

They sit for a bit, half-watching the telly.

“I won’t do it anymore, though,” Louis says after a bit. He isn’t sure whether he means it, but it feels like something to throw out there. Give Colin the chance to stop things, lest he should’ve wanted to for a while. “I wont fuck him anymore now.”

“No?” He can feel Colin turn to look at him, but he doesn’t take his gaze off of the telly. “Okay,” Colin says in the end, turning back to the screen too, “I think that’s good. Quit while we’re ahead, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Louis breathes. “Yeah, that’s right.”

It’s only after the conversation’s come to it’s conclusion that Louis realises the full effects of what he’s just done. That he’s just ended his and Harry’s entire thing, right then and there, that’s it. He isn’t sure what he’d expected. Maybe, really, if he’s a hundred percent honest with himself, he’d thought Colin would’ve told him to keep at it. Maybe he’d only thrown out the possibility of stopping because he’d been so stupidly sure Colin wouldn’t have agreed.

Maybe he _can’t_ stop now, maybe it’s too late, maybe he’s too far in. Maybe that’s why he really should. Fuck.

 

*

 

So. He doesn’t see Harry again for a while. He’s not stupid or over-confident enough as to think he’ll be able to go by the lad’s flat and see Harry and stand by his promise anytime soon. Just thinking about Harry, just memorizing his smell, it’s enough to fatten him up at record speed, send little sparks down his spine. It’s fucking pathetic, but it’s sadly the truth, so he keeps away from his friends just to keep from fucking Harry.

What’s even more pathetic is that, after a week and a half of not seeing Harry, he finds himself feeling offended, even slightly hurt, at the fact that Harry hasn’t so much as texted him. Not even a drunken little 3 AM _hey r u up??_

So, he thinks, that’s as much as knotting someone several times means to an alpha; fucking _nothing_.

It’s his biology infiltrating his mind, he knows that. It isn’t his _actual_ feelings, it’s not actually missing Harry’s kisses, his arms and his prick, it’s not the effects of being in proper love. It’s something one might stupidly confuse for some of those things. It’s just how he’s wired, the part of him he can’t change no matter how much he sometimes wishes he could.

Alpha breeds omega, makes omega want alpha to be only his, makes omega confuse that for love, makes omega stupid pathetic little fucking _idiot_.

Colin senses his frustration.

“Darling, are you sure you’re all right?” he asks, when they’ve just fucked one evening, and the sex was just— lackluster, at best. “If there’s anything I can do to make it better for you, I will,” he insists, “I’ll do anything, I just want it to be good for you.”

That only makes it worse. The longing, the constant physical itch, _ache_ , tugging at the part of him that needs _his_ alpha, that believes in something as _idiotic_ as owning someone through having had sex with them a particular way once or twice, and the _guilt_. He feels so, so guilty, all the fucking time. Colin offers him everything, he’ll do _anything_.

But he doesn’t offer Louis the one thing that he needs; the one thing Colin can’t give him.

He knows Colin isn’t oblivious enough not to know that, but that doesn’t help it one bit. That only lets Louis know that Colin’s actively choosing not to offer it again because he doesn’t want to. He wants to be enough for Louis now, just like he used to be.

But Louis can’t unfeel what he’s felt. He can’t fucking unknot himself.

 

*

 

It gets to be too much one Thursday evening, when Louis burns dinner and Colin’s been starving himself since he came home from work, looking forward to it. They order in, and then Louis offers his arse up as a sort of consolation prize for the lamb chops they aren’t having. Colin tells him he isn’t in the mood, twice, and the third time Louis points out the fact that he’s got a raging boner and _don’t you just want me to suck it for you, at least? I won’t ask for anything in return,_  he just screams out what he’s probably been thinking for weeks;

“No, because it wouldn’t be fucking enough for you anyway, would it?!”

And then, of course, the doorbell rings.

The pizza guy looks like he heard Colin’s scream through the door so Louis tips him extra.

“I’m sorry,” he says, walking back into the kitchen, offering a little smile, “but hey, let’s not fight in front of the pizza.”

Colin doesn’t laugh, doesn’t so much as reciprocate the smile. He gets out of his chair. “I’m gonna take Betty for a walk.”

“What? Colin, for fuck’s sake, can’t we just—”

“Just leave some for me, yeah? The pizza. I’ll be back in half an hour or so.” He walks halfway toward the hall, calls for Betty, then stops, dropping the bridge of his nose down between two fingers, rubbing at it. “Fuck, Lou, I just need a breather, all right?”

Louis bites his lip, looking at his husbands hunched back. “Okay. Okay, of course, I’ll— put yours in the fridge.”

“Cheers, darling.”

Louis settles down on the couch with a beer and his pizza while Colin leashes Betty up out in the hall. He doesn’t relax until he’s heard the front door slam shut. Then he turns up the telly, slings his feet up on the coffee table and digs into his pizza as he tries to take his mind off the constant pit of anxiety, gnawing at his stomach.

 

*

 

He’s only been on his own for about ten minutes when there’s another ring on the door. He mutes the telly and gets up with a sigh, irritated as he wipes tomato-sauce off his mouth by the back of his wrist and pads to the door.

“What?” he asks, only opening as far as the locked door-chain allows him. He looks right up and into a pair of familar eyes he hasn’t seen in a while and his stomach does an awful loop, just as familiar. Makes him feel a bit like he’s been punched in it, for a second. Makes him want to punch himself, just for feeling this way.

He unhooks the chain.

Harry’s got the hood of a grey sweatshirt pulled up over his head, a long black parka-coat on, his hands in the pockets of it. His brows are knitted together, bottom lip drawn in by his teeth. He doesn’t even say anything.

Louis clears his throat. “What are you doing here, Harry?”

Harry drops his gaze, scoffing his boot around on the front step for a moment. “You haven’t been round in a while,” he drawls, and the sound of his voice makes Louis have to clear his throat again, “and I was— I was just right round the corner, so I thought I might as well just…” he scratches a hand through his hair, “might as well. You know?”

Louis looks him up and down, eyes narrowing. “Are you drunk?”

“No,” Harry says, small grin tugging at one side of his mouth, eyes fuzzy, dark, “not very much so.”

“Right.” Louis ducks his head, wipes a hand over his nose in lieu of pinching his nostrils in. Harry smells too good to stand these many inches apart. “Okay, you’re drunk and you’re comin’ round for a shag now, I get it.” Harry doesn’t say anything. “Ehm, but, Harry, listen—”

“I get it if he’s home and you can’t, uhm— I get it if the time’s not right, right now, or the place, or, uhm…”

Louis lifts his head again, and he can’t help it if he smiles a little. Harry’s swaying, cutely. “What party were you at?” he asks, just to hear him talk some more.

“Just, like… round the corner,” Harry says, throwing a slack hand to his right like that answers the question, “my friend had a little thing, so… Anyway, I just recognized your street, cause I remembered when I’ve driven you home, so…” He tugs on the side of his mouth again, eyes crinkling up, “might as well, yeah?”

“Might as well,” Louis echoes, tapping the door-handle he’s still got one hand around, grinning stupidly, because Harry’s face just doesn’t allow for him not to. “Right... Right, listen,” he says, snapping himself back to reality again, “Colin and I had a bit of a chat about this whole… you know, thing, and— it’s got a bit too much for him. So we can’t do this anymore.”

“Do what? We’re not doing anything, really. Just convenient fun.”

Louis pokes two fingers to Harry’s chest when he tips a bit too far in. It’s hot, Harry’s heartbeat fast beneath his sweatshirt. Louis pulls his fingers back quickly. “Harry,” he says, “it’s enough now, yeah? It wasn’t ever meant to be a long-lasting thing. You didn’t think it was, did you?”

Harry scrunches his nose up, grinning lopsidedly. “Thought it might last for as long as I was around.”

“Well.” Louis shrugs a shoulder, dropping his gaze to his own feet. “Maybe it would’ve if you’d stayed around the same amount of time you usually do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Louis looks back up at him. “That you don’t tend to stay in one place for long, do you? You haven’t for a long while anyway.”

“Right.” Harry nods. He licks over his lips, glancing over Louis’ shoulder, nostrils widening just a bit. “He’s not home, is he?”

“No.”

“We could go, if you wanted. We could go, just to round it off.” He looks back at Louis, licking his lips for the hundredth fucking time. “Like, just quickly.”

Louis rolls his eyes, but the shaky breath of air that leaves his nostrils gives him away.

“Louis, please,” Harry says, a little whiny, tipping closer again, “I want it.”

“You’re drunk,” Louis replies, pressing an entire palm to his chest this time.

Harry snatches his wrist up, pulls it to his mouth and noses into Louis’ palm, breathes it in.

“Oh, please don’t—”

“You smell so lovely, Lou,” he says, licking into Louis’ palm, the heel of his hand, the thin skin on the inside of his wrist and Louis shudders, “you look so lovely, you look so, so—”

Louis yanks his hand back fast, because it’s the only way he’s going to get out of this without doing something stupid first. “It’s done,” he says, “this is done, okay? We can still be friends.”

Harry stares at him, wide-eyed, for three full seconds. “Oh, _fuck_ off,” he scoffs loudly, when he realises Louis’ serious.

Louis stumbles backwards, stunned at the sudden outburst.

“What’s your fucking problem?” he hisses, “what, I’m not worth your precious time unless you get to stick your dick in me? But you’ll hang out with all the other lads, you’ll hang out with all your fancy fuckin’ friends, but me it’s just— it’s just sex, innit? It’s just sex to you, there’s nothing else to me.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Don’t twist my words,” he says, “maybe I just don’t find it very fun to get thrown away soon as you and your husbands little deadbed marriage experiment’s done with. Give me a fucking break, I’m allowed to react, we’ve been fucking twice a week and now it’s just ended, like- just like that.”

“Yeah, and you’ve been fucking three other people every other day of the week, so I’m sure you’ll be all right,” Louis spits. He isn’t sure it’s true. He’s been wondering, maybe. How many, if any. 

Harry doesn’t give anything away. His eyes narrow, only because he knows what Louis’ trying to do and he won’t let him have it. “Fuck off,” he says, stumbling backwards down the garden path, “then fuck off, fuck it, then, fuck you.” He turns, then turns again, coming back up toward Louis, yelling; “and I hope you had fun telling your husband about my massive fetish-cock, I hope I served my purpose as your fucking marriage revival shit—”

Louis’ phone starts ringing.

He picks it out of his pocket by force of habit, and they both see the caller ID.

“Pick it up, then,” Harry snorts, “that’s your husband, innit, pick it up. I’m just the guy who’s exchangeable for a piece of fuckin’ rubber.”

He turns around again, stumbling down the garden-path and Louis bites his lip, glancing from the phone to him and the phone again, displaying Colin’s bright smile in a photo.

But fuck, it’s his _husband_.

“Hi, what’s up?” he says in a falsely cheery voice as he steps back into his hall, beginning to close the front door again. The only thing he hears on the other end is a loud, hysterical sob. He stops dead in the half-closed door. “Darling, what’s the matter? Colin— Colin, what’s going on, talk to me.”

Colin’s sobbing wildly, fighting to speak through it. “I don’t know, I— I don’t know, she just went and— I don’t know, I’m so sorry, it’s my fault, I’m so sorry, I lost my grip for one second, I didn’t think, she just went—”

Louis’ heart’s picked up pace from one second to the next, hammering so hard he can’t hardly concentrate enough to make out Colin’s words. “Talk to me darling, please, are you hurt? Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I— fuck I—”

“What’s going on?” Harry’s asking, and he’s back again, crowded close around Louis, “what’s happened?”

Louis echoes that same sentiment into the phone, twice, before he finally gets a comprehensible answer out of Colin; “I lost hold of it and she— she just ran out, Louis, I couldn’t stop her, and the car hit, I- it happened so fast.”

Louis digs his nails into the big arm that’s looped around him, trying to keep his nerves somewhat steady. “Betty? Is it Betty, Colin, is she all right?”

“She got hit, I couldn’t stop her, she just got— please, I’m right at the corner of the 7Eleven, she’s— fuck, I’m so sorry, I didn’t see—”

“Is she all right, Colin?” Louis yells through it, “just tell me she’s all right?”

The sob that follows is enough of an answer in itself. “I couldn’t stop her,” Colin sniffles, “I’m so sorry.”


	12. Chapter 12

They’re in Harry’s car in less than a minute, and find Colin in less than three. Louis isn’t sure what he was expecting to see, but he thinks he’d been preparing himself for the worst. Jumping out of the passenger-seat before Harry’s even fully parked yet, he sees nothing but the dark street, back of the 7Eleven and a park-entrance, Colin standing out front of it, clutching himself, shaking and sobbing.

“Don’t look at it,” Colin cries out when he sees Louis, and Louis doesn’t know what he means, but he runs across to him and and gathers his face up in his hands.

“You all right? You’re not hurt, are you?”

Colin shakes his head frantically. His eyes are wide, terrified, and keep flickering over to a spot somewhere behind Louis.

Louis turns to have a look.

“No,” he sniffles, but doesn’t try to turn Louis back around, “no no no…”

It’s near the middle of the street, a dark puddle. His stomach’s churning and once he reaches close enough and sees the blood splattered on the asphalt, it’s all he can do not to mix it with his own vomit.

“Where is she?” he exclaims, spinning around on his heel and marching back to Colin.

He’s standing by Harry now, Harry’s arm patting his back to console him.

“Colin, where is she?” Louis repeats, his voice thin, but sharp, cutting at his throat.

“She… they—” he’s hiccuping too much to speak, but Louis just stands there across from him, staring. His fingers won’t stop shaking. He presses the nails of them into his palm, tenses them hard enough to keep still. “The guy, he helped me, he took her and put her.”

“ _Put_ her?”

Colin bites his bottom lip in, eyes welling up once more, and he takes a step backwards and points to something on the corner of the pavement. It’s a black refuse sack.

“They were very sorry, they were very nice about it, she ran right out in front of them, it wasn’t their fault and then they helped me, they—”

“Oh my god,” Louis cuts through, breath hitching, “oh my god, is she— oh no. Oh, no, no…”

He runs toward the bag, wanting to get Betty out of here, revive her somehow, but Colin screams out _no don’t look!_ and someone growls and grabs him by the wrist, pulls him backwards and holds him there, arms tying in around him.

“Please, Lou, don’t look, it’s— he ran over her with… the entire wheel, it splattered—”

“Shut up!” Louis screams, suddenly, because he thinks he might be sick and his chest hurts, his stomach hurts, everything hurts, that last fucking word he just said hurt, _fuck_.

Nobody speaks again for a while. Colin’s standing back against the park-gate, sobbing quietly and moaning to himself about what he’s done and how he could’ve helped it. Harry’s nosing into Louis’ neck, holding him close and grumbling about not looking in the bag before he’s done so himself.

Once Louis’ calmed down enough, he lets go of him and goes and checks the bag. Louis bites on the tips of his fingers as he watches, holding his breath. The grimace Harry makes when he looks down into the bag, the noise that escapes his lips, it really doesn’t help anything at all.

Louis begins to stumble backwards before he knows he’s doing it. Then he turns, runs back to the car and gets in, slamming the door. He buries into his hands.

He still hasn’t actually comprehended what’s happened, nor cried a single tear, when Colin slides into the backseat and Harry makes terrible noise around the boot. He doesn’t want to know what it is that’s getting loaded in there.

The car ride home is awful. Colin keeps replaying what happened in his mind, the entire scene, mainly just thinking out loud between sobs, telling everyone how sorry he is, over and over and over, until the word’s lost all possible meaning. Louis just sits there, stiff in his seat, digging his fingers into Harry’s hand as it rests over his thigh.

There’s no discussion on whether Harry’s supposed to drive home to himself or come inside. He just does the latter without a word, leaves the dead-splattered dog in his boot and comes inside.

He’s never been in their kitchen before, but he moves like he has, pulling a chair out for Louis at the kitchen island, filling the kettle, finding teabags in the cabinet above it. He doesn’t say anything, but snaps his head up every time Louis so much as sighs. Colin’s gone to the loo to sob in hiding, and Louis doesn’t want him to feel this way, but right now he’s so trapped inside himself he can’t be there for him. 

Harry places three tea mugs on the counter, and then both his big hands down on Louis’ shoulders. “I’m really, really sorry about this,” he says, strong thumbs rubbing circles on Louis’ shoulders, “I can tell you don’t want to talk so we don’t have to, but I won’t leave unless you ask me to.”

“Okay,” Louis says, and finally tips his mug up enough to let the hot liquid reach his lips.

He doesn’t ask Harry to leave, not right then and not when Colin comes out of the loo ten minutes later, looking like he’s just fought through a major panic attack. He expects Colin to say something, if not politely telling Harry they need some time alone now, then at least giving him a look that said the same. But he doesn’t. He curls into Louis’ side, presses his damp face into the crook of his neck and chants _sorry, sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to, I’m so sorry_ , over and over, while Harry rubs circles on both their backs.

Harry disappears at some point, does something outside the house involving the boot that Louis doesn’t want to think further about. He comes back in when Colin’s dragged himself upstairs to bed and Louis’ just sitting on a chair in the kitchen, staring into thin air, wondering why he still hasn’t shed a single tear.

“Hey,” Harry says softly, and Louis doesn’t lift his head until Harry’s close enough that he can bury it in the soft fabric of his hoodie.

Harry growls softly, hunching down to close his arms around him, mouth pressing to the top of his head. He feels warm, right, smells like rain and booze and himself, feels protective in a way Louis hasn’t ever felt he needed before he got it.

He doesn’t know how long they stay like that, holding one another, but it ends because someone steps into the room.

“Guys,” Colin says, voice hoarse and utterly wrecked, “come up to bed.” Harry pulls back and turns to look at him, and Colin’s gaze flicks from Louis’ and over to his. “You too,” he says, “if you want.”

Louis’ lips part. Harry turns to look at him, questioning. “Yeah,” Louis breathes, after a beat, “yeah, if you want to. S’a big bed, there’s... there’s room for all three of us.”

So, they all go up to bed together.

It feels a bit surreal, Colin slipping into bed, and then Louis, and then Harry. Lying there in the middle, with the two only men he’s ever had inside of him, and the only dog he’s ever had, dead in a refuse sack, Louis feels that he should— well, feel _something_.

But he doesn’t. All he is is numb.

 

*

 

In the morning, he wakes before everyone else. He reaches past Harry and takes his phone, checks his calendar first thing. To his luck, there’s nothing he needs to postpone or cancel. He slumps back against he headboard for a second, just waiting. Waiting for the reality of what happened last night to come crashing down on him, crushing waves of grief.

He waits in vain.

Colin’s been sleeping restlessly all night, getting up to “pee” - cry - more than once, and Louis didn’t have it in him to follow him out and comfort him. Now, he’s lying on his front, face turned sideways in the pillow. His fingers clutch the edge of it, anxious even in his sleep.

Louis leans down and presses a kiss between his shoulderblades.

When he sits back up, Harry grunts and shifts on his other side, hand slapping into Louis’ lap. He’s much different to sleep with than Colin, constantly tosses his long limbs about and makes all sorts of noises, even speaks half-coherent sentences now and then. He’s _alpha_ , asleep as well as awake. Twice during the night, Louis woke to the feeling of being grabbed around the belly and hauled backwards across the mattress, off Colin and into Harry’s arms. He thinks Harry’s bitten him in his sleep too, on the side of the neck and the back of the shoulder, and when he woke just now he was wet up the side of the neck and behind the ear, like he’d been licked there.

Discounting all of that, Louis’ happy Harry stayed the night. He’s felt protected, safe, he’s liked the look of him in these sheets. The smell. He’s liked the certainty that no matter what happened, Harry would’ve stayed calm, levelheaded, would’ve taken care of everything, for him as well as Colin.

When he carefully crawls over Harry and out of bed, Harry grunts again, shifts in his direction and slaps a hand out for his thigh, but doesn’t catch it. He starts to snore again before Louis’ reached the bathroom door.

Louis wriggles out of his pants, and doesn’t look at himself in the mirror before steps into the shower. He doesn’t attempt to repress last night’s memory, but he doesn’t try to make himself cry about it either. If he isn’t going to, well then maybe he’s been lying to everyone, including himself, saying he loved his dog like he would his own baby. Maybe, really, he’s just a fucking sociopath who doesn’t give a shit anything or anyone. Perhaps he’ll get a new dog tomorrow, then, since it doesn’t even fucking matter enough for him to shed one single tear, all the while his husband’s been weeping buckets all night.

He steps out of the shower again, feeling empty and dissatisfied. Everything still feels sort of surreal, like he’s floating inside of a bubble that just won’t seem to burst. He ties a towel round his waist and pads back into the bedroom, to find Harry and Colin both awake.

Colin’s lying like he was before, but he’s buried his face fully in the pillow now, muffling soft sobs. Harry’s sitting up against the headboard beside him, running his fingers up and down his spine.

He gives a small smile when he notices Louis, eyes only momentarily catching on his half-naked body. “Hi,” he says, “good shower?”

“Yeah,” Louis breathes, slowly walking over to peel a pair of semi-clean briefs off the floor, “sleep all right?”

“Yeah,” Harry murmurs, his attention back on Colin.

Louis gets his pants on and drops the towel. For a second, he just stands there in front of the scene, his husband getting petted and comforted by his lover, unsure of what to do. Then he snaps himself out of it and moves, crawling up onto the bed. If Colin can accept as much as he has at this point, however much he’s gotten out of it personally, Louis can be all right with this. It’s not like they’re snuggling, or kissing, and even if they were, he doesn’t think he’d have the right to feel jealous. He isn’t even sure whether he _is_ jealous, whether that’s the right word for it. Maybe he’s just uncomfortable.

“Darling,” he says softly, reaching over and planting a hand on Colin’s shaking shoulder, “babe, it’s okay, it wasn’t your fault.” He isn’t even certain what he’s talking about, what he’s saying, but he just wants it to help. “You didn’t do it on purpose, please don’t blame yourself, I don’t blame you one bit.”

He isn’t lying, he thinks. He isn’t angry with Colin. He isn’t anything at all, right now.

“I’ll go make some tea,” Harry mutters, inching around so Louis can take his spot.

The bed dips and a few seconds later, Louis’ alone with his husband. Colin isn’t crying anymore, at least not loudly, his breathing calmer, shoulders still. Louis lays down halfway on top of him, slipping a leg between his and pressing his face into the back of his shoulder. Colin reaches a hand back to cover Louis’ and Louis kisses his skin in response.

After a while of just lying there, Colin shifts around. His pale grey eyes are red-shot and puffy, cheeks tear-stained and lips still a bit wobbly when he speaks, on a tiny little voice; “Still can’t quite comprehend what happened.”

No, Louis thinks. Me neither. “An accident,” is what he says, cupping the side of Colin’s face and catching a stray tear by the thumb, “an accident that you couldn’t in any way have predicted or prevented, that’s what happened.”

“I was frustrated,” Colin says, wiping angrily at his nose by the back of his wrist, “I was frustrated and out of it, I wouldn’t have lost my grip on the fucking leash if I’d been fully myself. I should’ve thought, I should’ve gone for a walk without her, I shouldn’t have used her as an excuse to get out of the house when I could’ve just been a fucking man and stayed and talked things out, but I—”

“Darling, _please_ ,” Louis cuts through, dipping in and kissing his shaky lips, “you can’t look at it like that, it could’ve happened any other night, any other day, it just so happened last night, when you were in a mood. You still couldn’t have seen it coming. You’ve had bad days where you’ve walked her before, nothing’s happened. This is _not_ your fault. Okay?”

Colin looks him over, mouth tight, jittery. “What are you feeling? I— I’ve been so caught up in my own reaction, but I’ve not stopped to ask you. How are you feeling? Are you all right? You spent every day all day with her, you must be—” he catches himself, swallowing down what looks like another sob, “you must be devastated, Lou.”

“Yeah,” Louis breathes, and it almost feels like a lie. Which only makes him feel a million times worse. He knows Colin meant well, but his gut twists up with guilt every time he thinks about it; the fact that he feels nothing. Nothing at all. “Yeah, of course I am.”

Colin whimpers, then hugs him close and kisses his neck and shoulders, comforts him with soft touches and words, apology after apology after apology. And all Louis can think is; _what a horrible person I must be, not to feel the slightest twinge of sadness_.

 

*

 

Harry stays around all day. He offers tea every half hour, brings it even if they say no, just in case. He cooks up a stir-fry for breakfast and eats it in bed with them, telly on and sound turned up to tune out anything else. He makes sandwiches for lunch, even as Louis protests and insists he’ll make something himself, and he doesn’t make anyone talk about anything they don’t want to. Louis isn’t sure whether he can sense what he’s feeling, or _isn’t_ feeling, but he seems to understand that Louis isn’t interested in being quizzed on exactly how devastated he is. He’s brilliant, really. Colin doesn’t even seem to mind him.

In the evening, when Louis hasn’t left the second floor once all day, Harry brings up take-out.

He ends up sitting in the middle of Colin and Louis this time, but it feels just as natural as anything else they’ve done all day. They find a lighthearted movie, no dogs involved, and settled into comfortable silence as they eat their food.

Still, after Louis’ been off for a piss and he’s just finished washing his hands, cutting off the faucet, he hears Colin sniffling in the bedroom again. He closes his eyes, taking in a deep breath, then turns back toward the door he left ajar.

He’s just about to push it open when he hears Harry’s voice, soft and quiet, “it’s okay, shh, it’s okay, it’s okay, I get it, I get it” and Colin whimpering, “I’m just trying to keep on a brave face cause he’s taking it so well, but I feel so bad, it’s all my fault, _I_ should be the one comforting _him_ ”. Harry doesn’t say anything much back, just another few  _shh_ ’s and _wasn’t your fault_ ’s.

When Louis finally does push open the door, Colin sniffles sharply and straightens back up. He was sitting with his head pressed to Harry’s chest. Harry doesn’t move the arm he has linked around Colin’s shoulder, even thought Colin looks like he wants him to.

“Hey,” he says, smiling softly at Louis, like there’s nothing at all to be wary of.

Which, maybe there isn’t. Apart from the fact that his own husband’s seeking comfort in someone other than him, because he’s such a cold fucking sociopath that he’s making the people around him feel guilty for having actual hearts.

 

*

 

They finish watching the movie without talking, and then another after that, and Colin nods off, head tipping onto Harry’s shoulder. When the second movie comes to an end, Harry start to pack all the take-out boxes down and pull on his clothes.

“You leaving?” Louis asks, from where he’s lying in bed, watching Colin sleep.

Colin stirs at the noise, and then wakes. “Huh?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, buckling his belt, “I’m gonna head home.”

“Oh.” Colin sniffles and rubs at his nose, sitting up a bit straighter, “yeah, all right. Hope I didn’t make you feel you had to leave, mate, it’s been nice having you here.”

Louis nods, because that’s right. He doesn’t want Harry to leave.

“No, I’ve got a few things to take care of, so,” he mutters vaguely. He finishes buckling his belt, then looks up again and asks; “you guys are all right, right?” It sounds directed at them both, but he’s only looking at Louis.

“Yeah,” Louis says, because he doesn’t want Harry to neglect his own responsibilities when all Louis needs him for here is to console his own husband. Which is _Louis’_  fucking responsibility. “Yeah, we’re all right, thank you so much for staying round and… taking care of us.”

Harry nods, something proud flashing over his face. “Of course.”

He fixes his shirt, then comes across the floor in one smooth move, dipping right down and kissing Louis. It’s just a peck, really, a sexless little _goodbye_ , but it’s right on the mouth and _right_ in front of Colin. When Harry pulls back, the look in his eyes tells Louis he’s realised that, just a little too late.

“Uhm,” he croaks out, before he steadies a hand down on the mattress and stretches across Louis, planting another kiss right on Colin’s mouth. He pulls back without eye-contact, cheeks a little flushed. He keeps his composure, though, and throws out a “goodbye, guys, call me if you need anything” before he’s gone.

Louis and Colin sit around in silence for a moment, staring at the empty door frame.

Then Louis gets out of bed. “Just gonna go down and thank him again.”

Padding down the stairs, he can still hear Harry rummaging around in the kitchen. He’s just gone into the livingroom when Louis walks in there. The box-freezer stands open-lidded.

“What’s this?” Louis asks, and steps over to look just as Harry shouts out “no, don’t look in there!”

It’s too late.The sight Louis’ met with drags a loud whiny noise from his throat.

She’s just lying there, cold and frozen, flat-broken at the middle, stiff like a corpse. She _is_ a corpse.

“Oh god,” Louis gasps, his stomach turning, throat closing up. Without thinking, he reaches down to grab her, hold her, make her good again, his healthy happy little pup, but just before his fingertips reach her broken body, an arm loops around his middle and yanks him backwards.

The fridge-lid gets slammed down and Louis pressed up against the wall, feet lifting off the floors. He doesn’t realise he’s wrapped around Harry, limbs locked tight, before Harry whines into his neck and says; “shh, it’s okay, it’s okay”. He doesn’t realise he’s crying until Harry’s licking at his cheeks, nosing into him, shushing him and chanting over and other “it’s okay, let it out, it’s okay, I’ll take of you, babe, I’ll take care of you”.

Louis stays in his arms, crying till he has no more left in him, and then for a while after.

In the end, Harry lays him down on the couch and follows, comes to lick his tear-stained cheeks fully clean, kiss the crinkles by his eyes, his eyelids and sniffly nose. “I’m gonna stay the night,” he says, as his gentle hands ride up and down Louis’ sides, “I’m gonna take care of you, you’re not going to be sad without me here, I’ve got to take care of you.”

Louis doesn’t object.

Harry gets up after a bit, reaching a hand down for Louis and they walk wordlessly upstairs together. Soon as Colin sees Louis’ cried-out face, his expression goes from confused at seeing Harry again, to soft, sorry, and he stretches his arms out for him. Louis crawls into bed and lets Colin pull him close, kiss and comfort him while Harry flicks off all the lights.

Colin doesn’t say anything when Harry slips in on the other side of Louis, or when he snuggles close to his side, arm laying over Louis’ stomach, or when the hand of that arm comes to rest on Colin’s hip. Instead he kisses Louis on the temple and then threads Harry’s fingers up in his own and says goodnight to them both.

They fall asleep like that again, all three, together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two things; 
> 
> 1\. this is the tagged 'minor character death' (hope those count for non-humans too), so don't worry about another coming along later. 
> 
> 2\. just realised harry drunk drove, but lets just say he wasn't very drunk at all, hehe :)


	13. Chapter 13

They bury her the next day. Louis fakes a stomach ache and stays in bed while Colin digs a hole in the corner of their stamp-sized back-yard and Harry does— something with the freezer that gives Louis a genuine stomach ache. They don’t notify anyone, and, despite Colin suggesting they knock together a wooden cross of sorts, they don’t make a big deal of the tombstone. They grab some smaller stones from the frontyard and, once Harry and Colin have covered up Betty in the hole in the yard, - Louis watched up from the bedroom window, genuinely very stomach-achey then - they arrange the stones in a circle over her grave. Louis reluctantly comes outside, and then they stand for a moment in silence. Colin had suggested making a speech of sorts or just saying a few words, but Louis doesn’t feel like he’d be able to say anything about his dead dog without joking or laughing, through sheer fear of crying instead.

“I’m sorry,” Colin does say, after he and Louis have stood silent in front of the ridiculous circle of stones thrown onto an ugly patch of earth for a few minutes. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, it shouldn’t have happened like this. I hope you’re happy in dog heaven.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Louis snorts, but when he speaks his voice cracks over, and Harry makes noise from where he’s standing back a few feet.

Colin wraps an arm around Louis’ waist and tugs him close to his side, and Louis tilts into him and closes his eyes, blinking away the dampness in his eyes.

 

*

 

Soon as they’re done with the burial and walk inside, Louis trips on one of Betty’s chew-toys and falls straight on his arse, the subsequent ache in his tailbone serving as some sort of tragi-comical physical manifestation of his loss.

He sits on the couch, rubbing his backside, while Harry makes tea and Colin, ever so discretely, begins to gather Betty’s belongings. They end up stashed away in a box somewhere, hidden until Colin can find out what to do with them. He’s trying to spare Louis any additional hurt, he’s treating this as if Louis’ the only one who’s just lost his dog. And he’s doing it because he feels guilty. Louis wants to tell him not to, wants to pull him close and comfort him, but he knows doing that wouldn’t help Colin right now; he needs to feel like he’s making some sort of amends.

Why Harry sticks around, though, Louis can’t be entirely sure, but it’s nice to have him here. Colin still doesn’t seem to mind either, but he might just be putting on an act for Louis’ sake. If he is, then Louis will take advantage of it, just for a bit. Harry makes such good tea. He wouldn’t ever admit it out loud, but on a day like this, Harry being who he is biologically is the best thing possible. Anything and everything he does, he does out of instinct, he manages to sense when to speak and when not to, when to dig his nose into Louis’ neck or rub his shoulders and when to just leave him be, and it’s brilliant.

In the evening, he mutters something about leaving, but it’s clear he’s only waiting to be invited up to bed. Louis bites his tongue and waits for Colin to be the one to do so, and luckily he is, just after a beat. Louis doesn’t check to see whether Colin looks like he only asked to please Louis, because if he did he’d risk feeling much too guilty going along with it. Which he, of course, does.

 

*

 

They don’t talk about what it means, but then again, they don’t talk very much at all. They spend all of Sunday in bed, watching telly. Well, Louis does. Colin and Harry go downstairs for a bit, the front door slamming a few times. When Louis does pull himself out of bed and come down at some point late evening, the box of Betty’s belongings is gone. He doesn’t ask about it.

“You hungry, darling?” Colin asks softly, crowding around him from behind. “Harry’s just gone down the shops for milk, we could text him if you need something.”

Louis loops a hand around his wrist and gives it a little squeeze, before gently wriggling out of his embrace. “It’s fine,” he says, “you don’t have to— you know.”

Colin’s frowning at him when he turns, but he bites back a _stop looking at me like you think I’m about to off myself and take you with_ and leans back against the kitchen counter with a sigh. His sore tailbone presses against the edge of it, but he bites back his wince as well. He can’t be bothered with Colin’s reaction to that either.

“D’you want a cup of—” Colin says after a moment’s silence, then cuts himself off. “No, the milk, right. Fuck. Anyway, I’ll make you a cup when Harry’s back in a sec.”

“Don’t bother,” Louis says, and realises how rude he sounds when Colin flinches. He forces a little smile. “Sorry, love, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just not in the mood for tea.”

Colin looks like he wants to object, because Louis isn’t ever _not_ in the mood for tea, but he keeps it in. Ducks his head and nods at the floor.

They stand in tense silence for another long moment, not looking at each other.

Then Colin lifts his head again. “He can stay for tonight too.”

“Who?” Louis says without thinking.

“Harry. He can stay.” Colin looks his face up and down. “I don’t mind him here. He’s more of a— he’s good at taking care. Less vapid than I’d thought.”

Louis nods. “Yeah.”

He’d never thought Harry was vapid, has known him far too long to ever make such a stupid assessment, but he’s been taken aback too, these past couple days. Harry cares more than he thought, even if all it really comes down to is his biology. It’s been a nice surprise.

“I like him here,” Colin says, and Louis can’t see any sign that he’s lying, but then he’s a bit beside himself at the moment, so he can’t quite trust his own judgement. He decides to anyway, because he’s selfish and he wants Harry here tonight. “He’s—”

The front door opens. Colin drops his chin again, arms crossing over his chest.

“Hii,” Harry drawls, sauntering into the room with a plastic bag in hand. “Got more coffee, too.”

“Great,” Colin says, offering him a weird smile.

Louis curls his fingers around the edge of the counter. Harry looks at Colin, smiling, and then over at Louis, smiling too, a little crease forming between his brows. His gaze flicks back to Colin again, and the silence that’s fallen over the room seems to stretch on forever.

In the end, Harry breaks it with an awkward snort of a chuckle. “What’d I miss? What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Colin says, shaking his head like snapping out of it, and smiling again, wider, “nothing, mate, great— great about the coffee, then. Yeah. I’ll, ehm… I’ll just go and…” he gestures vaguely toward the hall, “shower, ehm. Yeah.”

He slaps Harry over the back, twice, and then stumbles off. Harry watches him leave, and then looks back at Louis, mouth in a half-grin, eyes wide, brows high. “What the fuck was that about?”

“I don’t know.” Louis drops his gaze, chuckling at his own feet, “I don’t know. I suppose we’re just— a bit beside ourselves.”

Harry’s nodding, he thinks, but he doesn’t look up to check and see. He’s quiet as Harry unpacks his groceries and flicks on the kettle, fingers tapping restlessly under the edge of the counter. Harry smells too good to be this close without getting even closer.

“You know,” Harry says, “I can leave if you guys want me to. It’s just, like… biology, I guess. Everything in me wants to take care of you if you’re going through rough stuff.”

Louis nods, even though Harry’s got his back turned to him. He licks over his lips. “I know, yeah. I know.”

A couple cups get pulled from the cabinet and placed on the counter. “So, should I?”

“What?”

Harry turns to face him. “Leave. Should I?”

“I don’t…”

He’s coming closer now, Louis can feel it. Smell it, every painfully slow inch of space that gets erased between them. His hands cramp up around the edge, knuckles going white and he bites into his lip, doesn’t say anything.

Not until Harry’s flush against him, wide warm chest to his own, nose burying into the crook of his neck, sniffing his skin. “Harry—”

“Shh,” Harry grunts, pressing harder up against him, hand coming up to cup the side of his face, “shh, I want it,” he breathes gruffly. “Just let me.”

His tongue darts out, wet and cool as it drives up the thin skin of Louis’ throat, dragging a gasp out of him. He lets go of the counter, pulls on the small of Harry’s back to get him closer, then regains some semblance of sanity and pushes at his stomach to get him to back up instead.

“Harry—”

“Louis.” Harry bites at the juncture of his jaw, and when Louis objects again, voice so weak he flushes red down the chest, Harry slides his hand from the side of his face and over to cover his mouth, “shh,” he noses into Louis’ neck again, harder, again and again, like it isn’t enough, like he won’t be happy till he’s breaching skin, drawing blood, oh—

“ _Fuck_ ,” Louis hisses, his own breath hot under Harry’s palm.

Harry’s grip tightens, thumb digging into Louis’ jaw, hard enough to hurt. “Don’t talk, I want it,” he grunts, licking, kissing, biting at Louis’ skin, so sloppy his saliva starts to pool in the dip of Louis’ collarbone, “don’t talk, it’s mine, you— you smell like mine.”

He’s hard against Louis’ thigh, and when he gets a hand down to feel how much Louis is too, he whines and grinds up against him.

“Louis. Louis, fuck, Lou—” he babbles, breaking off from Louis’ skin, “can I kiss you?”

And somehow, that makes Louis laugh. “ _Now_ you ask for fucking permission.”

“Don’t need fucking permission,” Harry grunts, proud and childish behind the slight bit of joke he wraps it in. He’s pulled back, dark gaze constantly flicking from Louis’ mouth to his eyes, tongue constantly sliding out to slick over his own lips. “It’s mine.”

Louis swallows, riding out a wave of heat. “It’s _mine_. You borrow it when I let you.”

Harry sucks on his teeth. “You let me,” he says, after beat. “You let me, when I tell you.”

“Fuck off,” Louis snorts, hips squirming backwards without any room to do so, dick flexing as Harry presses his own harder up against him.

“Please,” Harry says, so unexpectedly quiet, needy, that Louis snaps his hips forward and moans. “Please, I want it.”

Louis rolls his eyes shut, just to keep from looking at him. He presses his thighs together.

Harry sticks a hand between and pries them apart again, pushes the heel of it up against his taint, fingers clawing at the back of his jeans. “Can I,” he says again, surging closer, nudging his nose at Louis’ neck, up under his jaw, “can I have it. _Please_.”

His wet lips drag up Louis’ throat and Louis wants him so much he feels dizzy from it, but he wants to jolt a reaction out of him more. “No,” he says.

“Yes,” Harry replies, so fast that Louis can’t help but bark out a laugh.

“No,” he insists.

“Are you wet?”

 _Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to_ , Louis almost says. “No,” he lies blatantly, instead. “Get the fuck off of me.”

Harry slides his hand back a bit, squeezes Louis’ cock hard, mean. Louis throws his head back, groaning, lips dropping apart. Harry groans at it and surges forward, licks right into his mouth, hands coming round to grab at his arse, hips driving up against him, cock so wet at the tip Louis can feel where it soaks through the front of his trousers and—

A startled noise interrupts them.

Harry gasps, stumbling backwards.

“Shit, Colin,” Louis exclaims, wiping saliva off his chin by the back of his wrist, “I didn’t—”

“It’s okay,” Colin quickly cuts through. He’s standing in the door, towel tied around his waist, damp chest-hairs matted to his pale skin, black hair smoothed back from his face. His cheeks are deep red, like they get when he takes those punishing hot showers he sometimes does. “It’s okay,” he says again, gaze shifting back and forth between them, “it’s all right.”

Harry’s standing beside Louis now, panting even louder than he is. Neither speak.

“It’s fine, it’s, ehm,” Colin goes on slowly, “it’s okay, you can—” He rakes a hand through his hair, backing up, “you can keep on. If you want.”

Harry turns to Louis for an answer, but Louis doesn’t know how to give him one. He’s so hard every second he doesn’t touch himself feels like stretching out the skin of his balls beyond its might, but he doesn’t move out of his spot, feels too stiff to talk. Colin’s watched them together before, twice, but the first time Louis was pissed off his head and the second it wasn’t on purpose. And now, he’s— he’s standing in his kitchen, right in front of the street-facing window and all the lights are on and there are four sets of much too wide eyes on him.

So, in the end he just croaks out; “I’m actually kind of hungry right now. Should we cook something up?”

 

*

 

Dinner consists of minute noodles, drizzled in grated cheese and crumbled-up sour cream and onion Pringles. They eat on the couch, all three of them beside each other, all three with their feet up on the coffee-table. Despite having turned up the telly loud enough to drown out their own thoughts, Louis still feels like he’s sitting inside one big never-ending, palpably awkward silence. On one side of him, Colin keeps muttering forced, unnecessary commentary to whatever’s happening on the telly or laughing at unfunny commercials. On the other, Harry is mouth-breathing to avoid taking in the scent of Louis, he presumes, looking and sounding pretty fucking disgusting as he eats at the same time, and constantly re-adjusting his dick in his jeans.

Soon as he’s cleaned his plate, Louis jumps up and offers to go make tea. He puts the kettle on, then counteracts that by walking straight into the livingroom and announcing that he’s going to bed.

“Uhm,” Colin says, glancing over at Harry, who’s sitting as far from him on the couch as possible, “all right, then.”

Louis feels guilty, suddenly, realising Colin might not want to be left alone with Harry, or vice versa, but before he has a chance to backtrack, Harry claps his thighs and gets off the couch. “I’ll make tea, then.”

“Oh—” Fuck, he feels like a dick. “No, sorry, I completely forgot, I’ll, I’ll make it,” he fumbles.

“It’s all right,” Harry mutters, taking Colin’s plate with him and heading off to the kitchen.

Louis stands for a moment, chewing on his nail, Colin’s studying him.

“Well, then,” Colin groans, hauling himself off the couch, “Harry, you all right to switch off the telly?” he calls out.

There’s a clink of dishes in the kitchen and then a hoarse; “yeah, sure, whatever you want, mate!”

Louis isn’t actually sure Harry heard what was asked, but he doesn’t object when Colin turns the telly off and then moves close enough to pet his cheek and rest a hand on his hip. “Just go up,” he says softly, leaning in to press a chaste kiss to Louis’ lips, “I’ll go help him with the cleaning up, we’ll be right up.”

 _We’ll_.

Louis pulls Colin back in, pressing a proper kiss to his lips. “I love you, you know that?”

“Love you too, darling,” Colin chuckles softly, pecking him again and squeezing his hip. “Won’t be going off to war or anything, just doing the dishes.”

“Equally as tough, though, innit,” Louis deadpans, and Colin snort-chuckles at him.

Louis grins back until it naturally fades, then strokes his thumb along his husband’s cheekbone and says; “you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. You don’t have to say it’s all right if it isn’t.”

“I know,” Colin says, smiling back at him, “I’m not.”

Louis nods. “Okay.” He nods once more, stepping backwards, “Okay. Okay.”

“Okay,” Colin chuckles.

“Okay. I’ll just go up to—”

“Yeah, go.”

Colin smacks his bum as he turns and, for the first time since Harry’s been here, Louis feels like Colin isn’t just indulging him because he feels guilty about Betty.

 

*

 

There’s a tightness in his stomach that won’t go away. It’s been there since he got upstairs and first realised he wasn’t sure whether to strip down fully nude before getting in bed. He ended up keeping on his boxers, just to be on the safe side. Now he’s lying here, anticipating something he isn’t even sure he’s going to get, but that only makes it worse. Better. Only makes his stomach tighten further, heart pump a little faster.

When he hears footsteps and voices down the end of the hall, he catches himself fisting the sheets.

Colin walks in first, fast followed by Harry. They’re chatting football, but trail off soon after they’ve walked into the room.

“Hey,” Colin says softly, beginning to take off his trousers. He comes to bed with his boxers still on, slides right in beside Louis and Louis snuggles up him, clawing at the warm skin of his stomach just to steady himself a little.

Harry switches the lights off before he starts to strip, but he’s still clear as anything, illuminated by the moonlight, shining in through the window. He doesn’t pull the curtains, just starts to shimmy out his jeans, then pulls off his t-shirt, and Louis takes him in again, all of him, because it’s been a while; all ivory skin, black ink, faintly defined abs and strong limbs, thigh-muscles working as he moves around. When he slips two thumbs under the waistbands of his boxershorts and begins to move them down, Louis turns onto his side and closes his eyes.

Colin doesn’t say anything, but he isn’t moving either. Not until the mattress dips on the other side and Harry comes to lie with them.

“Goodnight,” Colin says then, turning to curl around Louis from behind, face in the back of his shoulder.

“Goodnight,” Harry drawls.

“G’night,” Louis mutters.

They lie for a while like that, all breathing raggedly, not sleeping and not falling asleep either. Louis doesn’t know exactly what he’d been expecting, but if this is all he gets, he knows it’s a bit of a letdown. He doesn’t have the right to feel sorry for himself, though, because he doesn’t have the balls to ask for what he wants.

He just lies here, staring at the bathroom door.

After what might’ve been ten minutes, maybe only five, maybe a fucking hour, Colin’s slipped onto his back again, spooning too hot and sticky, and Louis’ not one bit closer to falling asleep. He can’t hear Harry snoring yet, but he’s sure he’s dozed off a while ago, Colin too, probably. It’s only Louis lying here, wondering whether just to sneak off to the loo and jerk himself.

But they aren’t breathing like they’re sleeping, though. Louis knows Colin’s breathing, awake, asleep, afraid, happy, angry, _horny_. And—

He shifts around.

Colin’s on his back, eyes closed. Harry’s on his side, up against him, eyes closed too, mouth at his shoulder. His hand’s on Colin’s bulge, gently massaging him.

“Mm,” Colin hums quietly, fingers brushing up and down Harry’s arm, urging him on.

“Yeah?” Harry rasps, but he still doesn’t open his eyes, just keeps rubbing him through his boxers.

“Mhm, yeah,” Colin breathes, and then he blinks his eyes open and looks directly into Louis’. “Babe,” he says, dozy smile spreading on his lips. He mouths out something that resembles _this all right?_ And Louis just nods, because, well— he’s rubbing himself too, now.

Harry opens his eyes and looks at him too, gaze darting down over Louis’ right arm. He licks over his lips. “You touching yourself?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, slipping his hand into his boxers, getting a proper hold of himself.

He watches Louis for a long moment, eyes darkening, and then he turns back to Colin, leans in and kisses him. Louis’ hand stills on his cock, he just stares at them. Colin’s lips part easily, his hand coming up into Harry’s long hair, thumb at his jaw as they kiss, dragged out and tonguey. Harry slides his hand down into Colin’s pants and pulls his hard dick out, starts to jerk him while they snog.

He opens his eyes at some point, looks directly into Louis’. Then he pulls back. “C’mere,” he says hoarsely, “kiss me.”

Louis swallows hard, taking his hand off himself and crawling closer, leaning over Colin to find Harry’s soft mouth. Harry hums against him soon as they attach, bites at his bottom lip before tonguing into his mouth and kissing him properly, hand going off Colin and down into Louis’ pants, thumb sliding over his slit.  

When they finally pull back from one another, Colin’s watching them, jerking himself.

“Kiss me, Lou,” he says, voice gone gruff, “god, you’re so sexy.”

Louis obliges, dipping down to find Colin’s mouth, hot and wet and sore-kissed already, cups his face while they snog like they haven’t in ages, just finding that old rhythm they never used to be able to get enough of.

They stop when Harry growls from beside them and Colin suddenly winces.

“Easy, mate,” Colin half-chuckles, rubbing his shoulder. He looking over at Louis. “Fucker bit me.”

“Sorry,” Harry exclaims, and he genuinely looks it, eyes wide, like he’s more surprised than anyone, “sorry, fuck, was that too hard?”

Colin chuckles again. “S’all right. Just not used to getting bitten.”

“Hey, I bite you,” Louis interjects, faux-offended.

“Not _that_ hard.”

“Guys, can we get back to, uhm,” Harry drawls from the sideline, still jerking himself, “cause this was just getting good.”

Right. But Louis isn’t sure where to take it from here.

Colin saves him by pulling his own boxers down a little further, taking his dick in hand again and saying; “give me head, babe.”

“Okay,” Louis glances over at Harry, uncertain for a second as to whether he’ll end up getting his husband bitten even harder if he does, but Harry’s just watching quietly, eyes half-lidded, hand riding up and down his cock, “okay. Okay, yeah.”

Louis scoots down the mattress a little, glances up at Harry once more, then lets Colin feed his dick into his mouth. He licks the head intently, like Colin likes it, plays with his foreskin and then gets down further, finds a rhythm, using his hand where he can’t reach. Colin moans and tells him _oh yeah_ and _you’re so good babe, god, you’re so good like this_ and Louis gets so caught up in it he loses track of where Harry is for a moment.

Until he feels two big hands on his hips, lifting him up on his knees. He stiffens for a second, but then Harry fits around him from behind, wide and warm and painfully hard against his bum, pressing in right where his boxers have soaked through with his slick. He’s on all fours over Louis, nosing into his neck and licking him, grinding his hips in little circles. Louis arches into him, moaning around Colin’s dick and Colin moans too, tangling his fingers into his hair.

“What’s he smell like?” Colin rasps, “what’s he smell like, how s’it make you wanna sniff him in like that?”

“Oh _god_ ,” Harry says hoarsely, sliding a hand up Louis’ spine and into his hair, fingers threading in with Colin’s, “he smells... _so_ good. It’s like— it’s like you’re not even hard, mate, you’re…” his hands come down, tugging Louis’ pants down his thighs, “you’re just standing, doing whatever and then, _fuck_ — then he walks in.”

“Yeah?” Colin breathes, fucking up into Louis’ mouth so that he gags a little.

Louis pops off for a second and then goes straight down again, wanting to be good, not wanting any of it to stop.

It doesn’t, at all. Next thing he knows, Harry’s pressing into him, forcefully, gripping his hips.

“Then he walks in and, _ungh_ , then— ah, _ah_ ,” Harry goes on, as he bottoms out, “then it’s like you couldn’t stop yourself for fuckin’, _ah_ , fuckin’ _anything_. It’s like— it’s like, if you don’t get him bent over that table in the next second, you’ll die, you just— you just _have_ to. You just have to, _fuck_.”

Harry pulls out a little and then pushes back in, and Louis groans loudly around Colin’s dick, but stays down, wanting to be good for him. He can feel that Colin’s close already. Harry pressed into him in one move, no forewarning, and he’s pushing in so deep with every slow thrust now, pressing the middle of Louis’ spine down and keeping his arse up, that Louis couldn’t speak even if he didn’t have his husband's cock in his mouth too.

“That’s— _ah_ , that’s what he smells like,” Harry pants, picking up pace, fingernails digging into the flesh of Louis’ arse, “like you can’t help yourself.”

Colin doesn’t give Louis any warning before he starts to spurt hotly up into his mouth, but Louis think it took him aback too, watching them fuck on so close hold, getting to be inside too, so he can’t blame him. He can’t stay down for long, though, popping off and gasping for air as Colin’s come spills from his mouth and Harry fucks him through all of it, never slowing down.

“God, your arse is so tight,” Harry pants, “so fucking wet for me, it’s— _ah_ , fuck, it’s good.”

“ _So_ good,” Colin agrees, breathless, petting the back of Louis’ sweaty hair, “he’s so, so good, always.”

And either it’s that, or the hard slap Harry lands on his arse right then, but Louis comes too, groans muffled against Colin’s stomach. Harry thrusts into him one more time, hard, and then pulls out and plasters his back in hot long strings of himself.

He collapses on top of Louis almost immediately after, hot and sweaty and so heavy Louis collapses immediately too, half on top of Colin.

“Fucking hell,” Louis exclaims, and he thinks that’s the last thing any of them says at all that evening.

They don’t move for ages, just lie there, panting, coming down. At some point Harry gets off of Louis so he can breathe again and Louis rolls into the sheets, covered in come still, but too used-up and tired to care. Not long after that, he hears Harry’s snoring, finally, and Colin’s breathing get like it gets when he really _is_ sleeping.

And, after all that, it isn’t long before he’s gone himself, too.


	14. Chapter 14

He wakes at the sound of the shower going off. It’s much too early to be up, but he forces himself to stay awake, realising it’s Colin in the bathroom, getting ready for work, and Harry behind him, snoring like no tomorrow. One of his legs is linked over the back of Louis’ thigh. When Louis tries to kick it off, he’s reminded of last nights event in the most physical, arse-throbbing, dried spermsheets sticking to his front and back-way possible. He stays put on his belly.

Colin comes out a minute later, naked with a towel in hand, rubbing his hair dry. “Oh, hi,” he half-whispers, meeting Louis’ eye, “you’re awake early.”

“Mhm. Goodmorning,” Louis hums, glancing down at his free-hanging cock, “and to you too, little mister.”

Colin rolls his eyes at him, turning to his dresser. 

He pulls a pair of blue pants out and begins to pull them on, then goes looking for trousers. Louis watches him put on a pair of black slacks, a blue polo and a blazer. His short hair’s air dried by then, and he’s on his way back toward the loo to fix his hair up a bit when Louis catches him by the wrist.

“What?” He glances down Louis’ naked body, arsecrack just covered by the sheet.

Louis tugs the sheet up a bit more. “Just wanted to ask, ehm,” he hesitates a second, just to hear Harry snoring loudly behind him still, “about… this? What are you, like, what—”

“What am I thinking?” Colin helps, and Louis nods. He’s chewing on his lip a bit, rubbing his wrist were Louis grabbed it. “I don’t know,” he says after a bit, “I don’t know, honestly. It was hot. It, I mean it was— it was _really_  hot, I came so fucking hard.”

Louis snorts a chuckle. “Don’t have to tell _me_ that.”

After reaching down to cup the side of Louis’ jaw, trailing the pad of his thumb up and down the lengths of it for a moment, Colin says; “he can stay here, for now. I think I’m not… I’m not certain what this is, but my opinion on it’s shifted a bit these past couple days. Definitely.”

“You’re not just saying that because of—” Louis cuts himself off because he realises right as he starts the sentence, that it hurts more just to say in head than he’d expected it to.

The look in Colin’s eyes tells him he’d have cut him off anyway. “No,” he says, “no, I’m not, I’m really— I’m really glad to have gotten to be part of it. It’s made me feel like I wasn’t just, like… this perverted little freak begging to hear about something I never got to see with my own eyes, you know? It’s different. Now I know him,” he says, gaze trailing over Louis’ shoulder, onto Harry. He licks his lips, “I mean, not _all_ of him. Not nearly as much as you do. But…” he looks back at Louis, smiling as he shrugs a shoulder, “so far, I’d like to know more.”

Louis nods, slowly. “Right,” he says, too tired to think it over, “okay. So we’ll just… see where things go, then?”

“Hm,” Colin’s gaze flicks back from where it’d momentarily drifted again, “yeah. Yeah. I think so. For now. You never know what big Mr. Snory over there wants to do. Could be he’s off by the time I get back from work today. There’s no accounting for him. But ehm… either way, all I’m saying is that _I_ don’t need you to kick him out just yet, if _you_ don’t want to.”

Louis nods, slowly. Again. “So… see where things go, then?”

Colin chuckles. “Yeah,” he grins, “yeah, that. What you said, that’s... _Shit_ , I’ve gotta crack on.”

He spins around and leaps into the bathroom. Louis turns over and snuggles up to Harry and falls asleep again.

 

*

 

The second time he wakes that day, it’s to the feeling of a weight splaying out on him from behind. He grunts and spits the pillowcase out of his dry mouth, smacks his lips and wriggles around. There are wet lips on the nape of his neck, too wet, they’re— they’re a tongue. It’s a tongue.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Louis groans, half-heartedly slapping back at Harry’s face. He’s sweaty, stale-smelling and so heavy Louis’ having trouble breathing. “Harry.”

“I licked you clean, cause—” Harry begins to explain, but he’s so caught up in humping the back of Louis’ thigh with his big dick that he’s moaning, cutting himself off at every other word, “cause you were covered in my come. Sticky with it.”

Louis jerks a shoulder backwards, trying to budge him off, but Harry presses it back down into the mattress by his nose, then sniffs it and kisses it so gently that Louis can’t find it in him to try again. He’s blanketed Louis fully now, dick rubbing up and down the morning-slick crevice of his arse, and Louis’ rocking back on it lazily, just because.

“Can I fuck you?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, and then Harry’s already lining himself up and he’s not ready, he hadn’t— “wait. Wait.” Pushing a palm back to keep Harry’s pelvis lifted, Louis twists his neck around to look at him. “Hold on a sec.”

His hair’s hanging down one side of his face, covering half of his eye, stringy with how greasy it is. His brows are furrowing with frustration, he’s straining enough to make his jaw twitch. “What?” 

“I just…” Louis wasn’t sure what he wanted, exactly, but looking back at Harry now he thinks he does. “Can I be on my back?”

Harry tucks his hair behind one ear, looking Louis up and down, frowning still. For a second, he looks like he’s going to say yes, but then he shakes his head, like snapping out of it, and presses Louis’ face down into the pillow again. “No,” he grunts, “I like it from behind.”

He slides his hand down from the back of Louis’ hair, slowly, steadies it between his shoulder-blades. The head of his dick gets pressed to Louis’ rim again and Louis sighs into the pillow, tilting his arse up to receive.

 

*

 

Afterwards, Harry rolls off announcing that he’s going to have a shower, all in one long sigh, but he never follows through. 

In the end, Louis tips onto his back too, and looks over at him. “Weren’t you showering?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, ripping his gaze off of the ceiling and over to Louis. He gives a nervous sort of smile. “Yeah, but, uhm… I’m sorry if— was that okay? Just now?”

Louis frowns a little, looking him up and down. There’s a cute little crease between his brows, a downward curve to his soft pink mouth. Louis wants to reach a finger over and straighten it all out for him, make his rubbery sweet face all good again. “Yeah, of course it was okay,” he says, “Was sex, innit. Sex is always good.”

“Mm.” Harry’s still looking at him like he wants to ask him something.

So when he doesn’t, Louis props himself up on one elbow, leans down and kisses him. It’s a short little thing, but Harry’s lips are soft and lax, fall apart so easily that Louis dips right down and kisses him again. His mouth is wet and warm inside, and the more Louis kisses him, the more he realises this is one of those rare moments where Harry lets him take control. It’s nice. Even if it’s just a two-minute snog it’s nice being able to give something to him, for once.

“Hey,” Harry rasps at some point, when Louis’ settled down on his shoulder, drawing doodles on his chest, “I noticed you guys had a tub.”

Louis fills the tub while Harry lounges about in bed. He sprays the water with a big gunk of bodywash while it rises and by the time it’s fully filled the tub, there are so many bubbles they’re brimming over and onto the floor.

“Bubbleeeess,” Harry drawls, dragged-out and lackluster, “yaaay.”

“Curb your enthusiasm,” Louis mutters, dipping a hand into the water and then wincing. “Christ, it’s scorching.”

“Idiot. Should’ve let me do it, I’m brilliant at making baths. I’m, like, the _master_ at it.”

Louis rolls his eyes, turning around to find Harry already naked. Well, _still_ naked, since he never put any clothes on to begin with. Which, sitting down on the edge of the top, bare arse and balls on the cool porcelain, Louis realises he didn’t either. Well. At least it spares them the awkward undressing session.

“Master of making baths,” Louis snorts belatedly, “think that’s just about the gayest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

“M-hm, and I also use those, like, bath-bombs sometimes,” Harry says, taking the gay-thing as a compliment without a second thought, “so like, if you see me frowning or huffing snobbishly it’s only because your bath couldn’t possibly ever match up to one I’d made myself, no matter how well you’d done. Just, so you know.”

“You’re an idiot,” Louis says, reaching back to grab at the water and sprinkle it at Harry’s naked body.

He squeaks, in the least alpha way possible, jumping a little too.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Louis sighs, turning to plop a foot into the water and biting back a small scream. He can take it. It’s just heat. God knows he’s gone through worse heats than this.

“D’you think, it’s, like, ’Harry’?” Harry asks from behind him.

“What?”

Harry comes over, plops both feet down into the water without hesitation and then sits right down without so much as a twitch. “His middle-name,” he says, smiling up at Louis, “Jesus’. I always wonder. Jesus H. Christ. What the ‘H’ stands for.”

Louis nods. “Right, so your go-to guess would be ’Harry’. That’s kind of a funny coincident, considering your own name is, what…”

“Henry.”

“Right,” Louis snaps his finger at him, “exactly, yeah. Kind of close, innit? To your own name. Isn’t it? Henry?”

“Stop fucking stalling and get in the tub already.”

Louis chuckles, caught out. “Wasn’t stalling,” he lies, forcing himself to plop another foot into the scolding hot water. Harry makes a snorty noise in mockery of him, but doesn’t say anything else until Louis’ finally fully seated across from him, leaning back against the fucking faucet, sore arsehole flush on the drain plug.

“Thanks for being such a gentleman and picking the good spot, by the way,” he mutters, wriggling around to try and get comfortable. Their legs have intertwined and he half-accidentally kicks Harry in the balls.

“ _Stop_.” Harry grabs his ankle and lifts it out from between his own thighs, “don’t.”

Louis lifts both palms in defense, laughing at the stern expression on his face. “Sorry, sorry.”

“Good.” Harry levels him another look, then lets his foot plop back down, “wanna be able to make babies one day.”

“Yeah?” Louis stretches his arms out over the edge of the tub and tilt his sweaty-hot face into his shoulder, “sure you’d be any good at it? You know there’s more to it than just the babymaking-part, right? You actually have to stick around afterwards and, like, be there and stuff.”

Harry looks him up and down, brows furrowing. “Yeah,” he says, and his eyes aren’t twinkling like they were a second ago. “I know that. Which is why I haven’t made a baby yet. Once I’m ready, I will.”

Louis chuckles, closing his eyes as he nods his head back to relax. “All right.”

They lie for a while like that, hearing nothing but the sounds of the many tiny bubbles popping around them.

But there’s a tension in here, Louis can feel it.

“What?” he sighs exasperatedly.

“Nothing,” Harry replies, voice cracking a little, and Louis doesn’t have to open his eyes to know that he’s lying. He waits, and it comes, after another second’s silence; “It’s just, like— fuck, I don’t know. It’s just, you seem to, like…”

“Like, what?”

“Like…” He’s shifting around, water splashing gently, the tips of Louis’ toes brushing his balls again. He gives a broken-off little noise at it, shifting further back, then sliding directly down again, balls pressing into Louis’ toe. This time he groans loudly. He lifts Louis’ entire foot up and plants it on his own thigh. Louis bites back a grin at it all. Even without saying anything, Harry can be so entertaining sometimes.

“Like, what?” Louis repeats after a moment of nothing.

Harry sighs. “You seem to have this idea of me as someone who’s literally incapable of certain things that I’m actually just _choosing_ not to do. Right now.”

Louis opens his eyes. “Wha’?”

The tips of Harry’s hair are wet and blackish, clinging to his pale skin, the top still dry, curling up in the humid temperature. He throws a hand through it, wet arm dripping down into his eyes so he has to blink and squint through it. Louis doesn’t laugh. “Okay, so like—” Harry wipes at his face, but there’s foam on his hand and it gets left on his top lip and cheek. “All I’m saying is, you don’t always know the thought process behind stuff. You don’t know whether I’m doing something because I can’t do anything _but_ that or whether I’m just choosing to do that thing because that’s what feels like the smartest, like… decision at the current moment.”

“Whatever you say, Santa.”

“What, I—”

“Foam-face.”

Harry groans exasperatedly and wipes his face again. It helps, a bit. “All I’m saying is, just cause I like to travel and go round different places doesn’t mean I’m _incapable_ of staying put. If I want to stay in one place, with one person, or whatever the case may be, I’ll do that. If I want to,” he says, “thing is, I just haven’t had a reason to yet. I have a job that takes me places, I have a job that gives me the money to go places outside of that, I have a job that makes it sort of hard to trust people when they say they genuinely like me for who I am.”

Louis nods, pouting at him in fake sympathy. “Poor little filthy-rich rockstar.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Harry splashes water at him, then throws his head back with a groan, eyes screwing shut. He opens them almost immediately again, scowling up at the ceiling. “— And like, the most annoying part isn’t even that you don’t understand what I’m saying, because I fucking well _know_ you’re not stupid enough not to,” he glances down at Louis, “it’s that you think _I’m_ stupid enough not to catch you on your fucking bullshit-act.”

Louis licks over his lips. They’re salty from the sweat of his top lip. “Okay,” he says, slowly, “what is it that I do understand, but pretend like I don’t? Exactly?”

“Just that, like… that I’m capable of it,” Harry says, watching him intently, nostrils flared, “staying round. Being a good alpha. Taking care of my babies, one day. Taking good care of my omega like I’m supposed to.”

Louis breaks eye-contact, dropping his gaze down into a hole in the foam, seeing his own hand fiddling with the skin of his hip underwater. It’s too hot and dampy in here. He’s thinking things he wouldn’t normally. Things like; _yes. Yes, you will do what you’re supposed to, what you were born to, because you are a good alpha and that’s so inherently hot I’m getting hard just hearing you talk about it_.

It’s all he can do not to voice it. “You’re not _supposed_ to do anything,” is what he manages to say, looking back up at Harry with regained sanity, “you’re not born to be anything but yourself, you shouldn’t feel ashamed or lesser than for not fitting into society’s idea of what an alpha is ‘supposed’ to be.”

There’s this arrogant little curl on the crook of Harry’s mouth, almost amused. “Hm,” he says, lifting Louis’ foot up and driving his thumb up through the arch to make him moan in pleasure, “you’re still good at that.”

“Wha’s that?” Louis asks, voice going slurry as Harry massages his foot just right, and he rests his head back again, eyes fluttering closed.

“Bullshitting so much you almost believe it yourself.”

Louis wants to tell him to fuck off, but he doesn’t want the foot-rub to end so he keeps his mouth shut and just snorts weakly out through his nostrils.

“But,” Harry drawls on after a moment, “just so you know. In here, in this tub, when it’s just the two of us; you’re not fooling anyone. I know who you are, behind all of that fucking bullshit. I know what you _want_.”

His hand drives on up Louis’ calf, wanting to go higher, but Louis manages to process his words finally, and kicks him off. “Don’t do that,” he says, shifting up to sit at eye-level with Harry, “don’t use your, like…”

“Magic fingers?”

Louis flips him off. “Don’t use physical shit to think you’re out-smarting me. You’re not. What, you think a bit of alpha-dick, foot-rubbing and sweettalking’s enough to make me change my entire view on life and what I want in it? You’re really that fucking arrogant?”

Harry blinks slowly, head still tilted back, eyes half-lidded, like nothing in the world could ever affect him. “No,” he drawls, “I just think you’ve been lying to yourself all along and I’m the first person to ever really call you out on it.”

Louis stares at him, back of his neck burning, blood starting to boil, and he doesn’t even know what to say. He feels like screaming, a little bit, cursing and splashing, but he thinks that’s exactly what Harry wants him to do. He thinks, if he did react, if he did let his temper get the better of him like he always does, Harry’ll only tilt his head back further, smirk bigger and say something like _yeah, nothing more aggravating than being confronted with a truth you don’t want to know, is here?_

So, slowly, straining everything he has in him, Louis rests back down. He says nothing.

“Anyway, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Harry says after a while, like nothing happened, lifting Louis’ other foot up to start massaging, “how are you feeling? About Betty and that?”

“Really fucking sad,” Louis blurts, because that’s another aggravating truth, “really fucking angry at life for such a stupid little bloody mistake just ending it all, just like that, one minute to the next. And I really, _really_ fucking miss her.” He opens his eyes again, shooting Harry a firm look, “and no. I do not want to _fucking_ talk about it.”

Harry nods, eyes calm, gentle, “okay,” he says, and, after a beat; “I love it so much better when you’re honest, for once.”

It’s a struggle not to kick him in the balls again.

Louis manages not to, somehow, and lays back down. After a while, Harry shifts closer, grabs hold of the edge of the tub behind Louis’ shoulders and hauls himself up between his legs. They snog sloppily, mouths so hot, glide so soft that Louis thinks he could go on for ages. Harry’s cockhead catches on his hole several times, and he whimpers softly every single time, these needy little noises that Louis can’t get seem to get enough of. It’s difficult in the water and Harry tries to get in a few times with no luck, but Louis doesn’t move around or suggest they leave the tub because lying here like this, just snogging, could be enough for him and he’s pretty sure Harry would turn him onto all fours if they got out to fuck.

Eventually, Harry buries into Louis’ neck, takes himself in hand and forces it in. He grinds rather than thrusts, afraid to slip out again, the water working against any glide Louis’ slick might provide. It makes everything slower, softer, Harry in particular. He’s got one arm linked round the back of the tub to keep himself in place, but the other one moves around everywhere, riding up and down Louis’ sides, into his hair, cupping his face, feeling his thighs, finding his hand in the water.

When they’ve both finished, their foamy red prune-fingers lie intertwined on the edge of the tub.

“Thank you,” Louis says, giving his hand a squeeze and smiling dozily up at him, “you fuck so well.”

“You take it so well,” Harry replies with a half-grin. It dissolves quickly, turns back into something softer, more sincere, and he leans down to kiss Louis again. Both their loads got shot up Louis’ stomach and it’s kind of gross to think about it now that they’re still lying here in the filthy bath-water. So they don’t think about it. They don’t think at all. They just lie there, snogging for ages.

 

*

 

The arrangement doesn’t really get talked about, ever. Harry’s still there when Colin arrives home from work that day and the next, and the next after that and for weeks after. Louis does a radio interview one day and comes back to find a line of different leather-boots in the hall and big black duffelbag open on the bedroom floor, containing an array of white t-shirts, flaily button-downs and two pairs of skinny jeans. No one mentions it.

It functions surprisingly well.

Harry and Louis spend a lot of time one-on-one, and Harry also goes and does his own thing, one time for three full days, but he comes back again. More than anything, Harry’s an improvement; he’s good at giving Colin backrubs and letting him rant till he’s exhausted after a rough day at work, seems to find a deep sense of pride in taking care of others. He’s good at consoling Louis after telling people about Betty, not being annoying about it, just being _there_. He’s good in tense situations; despite having more of a temper than Colin, he still has less than Louis and in some weird way that evens things out. He’s just good, all around.

Most days, the three of them just hang out, playing video games or watching telly, nothing they wouldn’t have done with any of their other mates. Most nights, they all just go to sleep, snuggling and snoring and kissing goodnight and goodmorning, nothing they wouldn’t have done with— well, nothing too sexual anyway. Some nights, when Harry and Louis haven’t gotten each other off sufficiently in the daytime, or Colin’s feeling energetic enough to initiate, they all hook up.

The threesomes mainly consist of hand- and blowjobs, since Harry high-fiving Colin one night, while they were both inside Louis, sort of made him feel like a blow-up doll. The only time there’s ever any real irritation, though, is when Harry suddenly bites Colin, too hard and too out of the blue, which happens once or twice, mainly when Colin is inside of Louis in some way. He always apologises profusely immediately after, though, and Colin isn’t ever that affected, beyond the first moment of sharp pain and shock.

It functions, pretty much, perfectly. The first couple weeks.

 

*

 

They’re lounging on the couch one Sunday afternoon watching telly after having been out with all the lads the night before, celebrating another one of Ziall Toys’ milestones reached. It’s still not entirely dark outside and Louis’ itching to get out of his seat, if nothing else then just to pop down to the shops. When he had Betty, there was always an excuse to get some fresh air and a bit of peace of mind, but now all he can come up with is; “gotta run down for smokes.”

Harry begins to moan about cancer, but can’t even be bothered to lift his head off the backrest, so Louis ignores him.

He heads out quickly, before anyone can ask to join him, because, as much as he thrives on the near-constant company that comes with living several people together, he does need a moment on his own, just once in a blue moon. He does what he said he’d do, because he’s run out of smokes anyway and he hasn’t caught up with the nice kiosk-lady in a while. They end up chatting for ages, her asking _where’s your sweet little dog?_ and him not being able to keep his stupid words in.

When he finally reaches back home again, pack of cigarettes in his pocket and one between his lips, it’s been over half an hour. He didn’t even bring his phone. He braces himself for an _I was worried sick_ -scolding, putting out his smoke and stepping into the house.

No one runs to him, though. No one calls out his name hysterically. No one even turns off the telly.

Phew.

He begins to apologise for taking long as he walks into the livingroom, but quickly trails off. The couch is vacant.

“Guys?” He checks the downstairs loo and the kitchen, but finds no one. The lights are all on, the telly too, and when he finds his phone between the couch-cushions and checks, he hasn’t gotten any new messages. “Colin!”

He heads upstairs, calling out his husband’s name once more and then Harry’s, but getting no response. Once he reaches the top of the stairs, he hears noises coming from the bedroom. Before he reaches the bedroom, he realises what those noises are. Loud groans, _harder? Yeah, harder?_ , bedpost knocking the wall, _fuck, you’re too big_ , feathers creaking violently and _you can take it, come on, you can take it harder_.

The door is left gaping open. Louis walks straight up to the threshold, then stops dead. 

They’re facing away from him, and all he sees, soon as he walks in, is the top of Harry’s arse, clenching as he thrusts. His trackies are pulled halfway down his arse and his t-shirt is off entirely, his back dripping with sweat, muscles taut. He’s got one hand steadied flat up on the wall above the headboard, the other gripping onto Colin’s hip as he fucks, viciously hard.

Without pre-thought, Louis walks into the room, naked feet silent on the carpet, and up to the side of the bed.

Colin’s clutching the bottom of the headboard-bars, face in the pillow, which he’s biting, and he’s groaning like he’s being strangled, but his cock is so hard it’s dripping pre-come where it peeks out of the jeans Harry’s just tugged down far enough to get in.  

Harry’s panting like he’s just run a marathon at record-speed, hair loose and plastered to the side of his sweaty red-flushed face, lips apart, slack and wet. He slows down for a second to push some of his hair out of his face and, from the looks of how his abs jump under his fern leaves, fight not to come first. He makes a sniffy noise and then turns his head. “Fuck,” he says, low, raspy.

Louis nods silently, unsure of what to say. He crosses his arms over his chest.

Harry looks him up and down, then clears his throat and turns to where he’s pressed inside Colin and spits down onto his hole. “Gets dry quick, this.”

Colin chuckles breathily. “Yeah, sadly I don’t self-lubrica—” he begins to say, mouth out of the pillow, and then sees Louis, “oh. Fuck. Hi.”

“Hi,” Louis says, and can’t help but chuckle because he’s got no idea what to do with the situation.

Harry tilts his head a little, brows drawing together. “C’mere,” he says, reaching a hand out for Louis, “join.”

“Let me suck your cock,” Colin’s quick to offer, “you look hard up.”

Louis glances down to where his dick’s about to burst through the fabric of his jeans. “Oh,” he says. “I, ehm. No, I— I’d actually rather just, ehm… step back and like, watch. Maybe?”

Harry narrows his eyes at him. “Sure? We want you to be in.”

“Yeah,” Colin agrees from his compromised position.  

“No no,” Louis insist, shaking his head a bit manically, “no, it’s, it’s fine. Yeah.” He steps back and squeezes himself, then gestures for them to go on. “Just— yeah.”

It takes a while for Harry to get back into it again, find any sort of rhythm resembling the one before Louis walked in. He keeps looking over at Louis, checking to see if he’s not bursting out crying or going red with fury. Once Louis’ got his cock out and has leaned back against the wall, though, he manages to turn his attention back to Colin. He fucks him harder than he’s fucked Louis in a while, even after the interruption, and Colin makes noises Louis’ _never_ heard before. He’s clawing at the sheets, clasping at anything, giving these guttural groans like he’s constantly on the brink of it being too much, and Harry fucks him through it all, headboard pounding the wall, palm slamming Colin’s arse continually.

When Colin comes, it’s all groan, he’s so red it looks painful and he’s biting the pillow, clutching it for dear life. Harry follows straight after, just managing to hold his knot back as he comes inside Colin’s arse and then falls apart on top of him.

As they lie there, clumped together, a sweaty panting mess, Louis slips into the loo unnoticed and jerks off into the sink.


	15. Chapter 15

He’s just tucked himself back in his jeans and is watching the faucet wash away the remnants of his load when Harry pads up behind him. He’s pulled his trackies on again and his greasy hair up in a bun. His cheeks are still red, though, blotchy and damp looking, his chest too.

“Colin’s dozed right off,” Harry mutters, Louis stepping aside so he can wash his husband’s come off his hand.

“What a guy.”

Harry snorts a dry chuckle and doesn’t say anything else as he lathers his hands up in soap. There’s a trickle of sweat running down from the curls on the nape of his neck. Louis watches it till it reaches the dimples at the bottom of his hunched-over spine, then realises he’s drawn blood from chewing at the hangnail of his own thumb. He sucks it off and stuffs it in his pocket, just before Harry turns around and looks him over.

“You all right?” he asks hoarsely, hands curling round the edge of the counter.

“Yeah,” Louis says, because why wouldn’t he be? He’s just found his husband in bed with his lover, he’s just jerked off into his bathroom-sink, he’s just drawn blood out the side of his fucking thumb, how could he possibly want more out of life? “Let’s order pizza.”

Harry’s brows draw closer. “Wha’?”

“For dinner,” Louis says, swaying his hips a little, wagging his brows, putting on a show, “s’about that time, innit? I’m bloody starving.”

“Right.” Harry’s eyes glide up and down him, slowly, so intent Louis feels the back of his ears heating up, “you’re all right, though?”

“Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know,” Harry says, but it looks like he does, “I don’t know, I guess…” he scratches at the back of his neck, finally looking away, “I guess, I don’t know.”

“Well, then I guess you guess right,” Louis deadpans, and Harry gives him a confused look, and he says, “since you _don’t_ know.”

Harry still doesn’t seem to get it and Louis can’t really blame him because, frankly, he doesn’t even think he did himself. His mind is empty in a way that makes him feel unsettled, his eyes feel like they’re either drooping closed or staring too hard, his skin feels itchy. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, or the way Harry won’t stop looking at him again, now.

“Let’s go downstairs,” he says, and quickly follows up with, “I’m going downstairs,” just to let Harry know he really isn’t needed if he doesn’t want to come.

He does, anyway. They settle on either end of the couch, and go quiet, tuning in to the telly. What’s on, right then, is a dog-food commercial, featuring a fucking _pug_. Louis nips his phone off the coffee table and tunes into that instead. He’s just looking round in his phonebook for the pizza place’s number when he feels Harry lift his feet into his own lap. He swallows quietly, trying not to react. Harry starts to massage his feet, gently, and Louis clears his throat, not so gently, asking, “you were all right with pizza, yeah?”

“Yeah, uhm,” Harry says, then coughs and adds on; “but d’you think Colin—”

“Oh.” Right. There’s a Colin upstairs. “I know his order, it’s fine, we’ll just wake him when it gets here.”

“He only ever orders one particular kind of pizza?” Harry asks, and Louis shrugs a shoulder. Harry gives a low grunt. “Not very adventurous, that Colin.”

Louis huffs. “Seemed adventurous enough upstairs just before.”

He can feel Harry’s head snap around. It’s by straining every inch of his body, that Louis keeps his gaze on his phone. “What’d you think of it?” Harry asks, eyes burning a hole in Louis’ skull, “just before?”

“Nothing much.” The sides of his mouth keep twitching uncontrollably and he doesn’t know why. “You looked hot together.”

Harry’s hand tightens up where it’s looped around his ankle. “Yeah?” he asks, and it’s all suspicion, disbelief.

“Yeah,” Louis says firmly, forcing himself to look up at him. He won’t let him have it, whatever it is that he’s digging for. “Yeah, it was hot.”

“It wasn’t planned or anything,” Harry says after a beat, “he— we didn’t sit round waiting for you to leave and then go at it, it wasn’t… it just happened, you know. Cause we were horny, I guess, I don’t know, but— but like, I could see on your face, you went all pale, I—”

“Shut up,” Louis cuts him off, holding a hand up and yanking his feet back to himself. “I was fine. It was fine.”

He presses the contact for the pizza place, coughs away the the small lump in his throat and puts the phone to his ear. Harry keeps staring at him all throughout the phonecall, but Louis doesn’t blink an eye. He’s fine. It’s fine.

 

*

 

Colin corners him in the kitchen late that evening, after he _voluntarily_ offered to do the dishes.

“What’s wrong?”

Louis continues to scrub a nonexistent stain on a plate. “Nothing’s wrong, babe,” he says, faux-casual, “just reckoned I needed to chip in a bit more round here.”

“Why, after all these years, tonight of all nights, where we’ve eaten out of cardboard-boxes and left virtually no dishes, did you decide you needed to do that?”

His voice is exasperated, but his eyes are fond and teasing when Louis glances over his shoulder.  

“I don’t know, darling, I guess I just always choose the easy way out,” Louis says, turning back around and stuffing the last dish in the machine, then slamming it shut and mulling over the buttons. He has started this big boy before. He has. He swears he has. “The fuck do you turn this thing on?”

Colin laughs. “I love you,” he chuckles, hip-bumping Louis aside, “but for starters, we might want to put the tablet in, yeah?”

He’s being cutesy about it, grinning back at Louis over his shoulder as he re-opens the dishwasher and rummages around under the sink for tablets, but Louis can’t really bring himself to smile back. He thinks he’s feeling annoyed, suddenly. Or maybe he has been all evening. Maybe it’s just finally reached the surface now, looking at the bite-mark on the back of Colin’s shoulder.

“What?” Colin asks, turning round once he’s put the machine on, leaning back against it. “What’s with you?”

“Nothing,” Louis says, looking down at Colin’s feet.

“Okay,” Colin replies, looking down at Louis’ feet.

They stand for a moment like that, quietly nodding at each other’s toes, digging their thumbs further into their own pockets.

“I’d love it if you told me, you know,” Colin says after a while, and then does this horribly aggravating thing where he doesn’t follow up on it until Louis lifts his head and looks him in the eye. “If it upset you.”

For a second, Louis wonders whether he could get away with acting like he doesn’t know what Colin’s talking about. Then he remembers that Colin isn’t an eighteen-year-old virgin willing to indulge him in every way possible just to get to hold his hand anymore. “It didn’t,” he lies, “it just… caught me off guard, I suppose.”

“You jerked off to it,” Colin notes, eyes much too mild and guileless for the kind of irritation it sparks in Louis.

“You know better than anyone that that doesn’t have to mean a fucking thing,” he hisses, “so don’t use that as an argument, not when I’ve sat an apologised to you before, ignoring the fact that you’d just jerked like your load was made of fuckin’ lava.”

Colin frowns, for a second, then bites his lip, trying not to burst out laughing. “Lava?”

Louis drops his head, wiping a hand over his mouth to hide the smile that’s tugging at it. “You know what I mean.”

“I’m sorry, darling,” Colin says, still chuckling a little, “I’m sorry. I suppose the thing we were watching just ended and we were bored and then one thing took another and then… well, you know how it is. I think I thought, since we’re all here, and everything’s been so casual, a natural part of ‘seeing where it goes’ would be for me and him to also have that freedom. Just like you and him do when I’m at work.”

Louis looks up again, eyes narrowing. “You can’t use that against me.”

“What?”

“You can’t use that, that’s like bloody trapping me, you can’t— that’s like you saying you want me to piss on you and then I do it and then you use that against me to be allowed to piss on me back. You can’t do that. That’s not how— it doesn’t work like that.”

“Ehm…” Colin face looks like one big question-mark. He scratches at the back of his neck. “Sorry?”

“Yeah.”

He bites his lip, eyes crinkling up with another laugh he’s holding back on. “Babe,” he says, “you look so cute when you’re telling me off.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

Colin’s lips press together in a thin line, brows arching. He nods.

“And— and also,” Louis says, lifting both hands, caught in some manic combination of being overly dramatic for comedic effect and genuinely frustrated, “like, we have been fucking since you were what, like, like…”

“Nineteen.”

“Yeah. That. And in all of that time you have never _once_ expressed any sort of interest in bottoming,” Louis rants, “so, so, ehm— I suppose I’m just a bit shocked, finding you whining and pillow-biting with a giant alpha-cock up your arse.”

Colin gives a coughy sort of laugh. “Nicely put.”

“Well.” Louis shrugs a shoulder. “S’what it is, innit.”

“Yeah. Ehm…” His gaze starts to drift, float around the room as he chews on the inside of his cheek, scratches at the edge of the counter he’s leaned back against. For a while, the only sounds left in the room is the one of the dishwasher swooshing and occasionally clinking, and the telly, coming in from the livingroom. “I don’t know,” is what Colin finally says, after minutes of brain-racking, “I don’t know, I guess I just realised I wanted to try it.”

Louis nods. “Just like that. Out of the blue. One day to the next. Hey, guess what, I’m a bottom!”

“No,” Colin chuckles, “no, I— well, does it have to be such a, like… _set_ label? Can’t it just be something I felt tempted to try out?”

“I could’ve tried fucking you.”

“You’ve told me on multiple occasions you wouldn’t be able to get hard for that.”

Louis crosses his arms over his chest. “I would’ve used a strap-on.”

“Hm…” Colin shrugs. “I don’t know. I suppose it was just, sort of… god, what’s an example… ehm, all right, sort of like if there’s a cat who only eats cat-food, right? But then you place the most delicious sort of dog-food in front of them, just, like, the creme de la creme of dog-foods, yeah? Even if the cat still loves and prefers cat-food, you know…” He grins sheepishly, “might just wanna have a bit of a lick at the dog-food. If it looks _really_ good.”

Louis clicks his tongue, eyebrows high. “So, Harry’s the dog-food, then?”

“I suppose, yeah. In this scenario.”

“All right, well... well.” Louis sighs, then forces a smile and nods, “okay. I suppose I’m glad you explored yourself. Did you like it?”

“S’all right,” Colin says, feigning nonchalance.

Louis rolls his eyes and smacks him over the arm. “You looked like a fuckin’ tomato getting pummeled.”

“Ew,” Colin whines, but wrestles Louis into a hug nonetheless.

“Yeah,” Louis chuckles, putting up a bit of a fight and then going slack in it, face nuzzling in at Colin’s shoulder, “aren’t you sore?”

“Can’t hardly stand.”

And, despite having talked it out and decided not to be cross about it, Louis can’t help but revel in hearing that. Karma.

 

* 

 

The next time Harry fucks Colin, it’s with Louis present, start to finish. It’s a week later, when Louis’ ridden himself into an orgasm, painted Harry’s chest in streaks of come, and then tipped off to the side, too sore to let Harry chase his own. So, Harry turns over and continues in Colin instead. It’s fun enough to watch, hot to see different angles of Harry’s body as he fucks, see how he gets so riled up, so rough about it that it’s all Colin can do to bite his bottom lip white and take it. But, Louis finds himself waiting for it to be over, gut tight with impatience. He finds himself needing double as much attention soon as it is, needing to be kissed and touched and held and validated after, as if somehow something’s been taken from him during Harry and Colin’s menage a deux.

He never voices any of it, though. It doesn’t happen very often that they fuck one-on-one, and if it does they’re good at finding moments where Louis won’t walk in on it. He knows he’s made it more or less all right for that to be a thing, since it’s very much a thing between Harry and him too, but he doesn’t like to think about it. In fact, the thought of the two of them going at it while he’s in a meeting with his editor or spending the night in a hotel in Manchester after a public speech at the university kind of makes him want to rip his own skin off. He manages just to give himself a few too many shaving nicks and leave it at that, though, so he thinks he copes all right.

Although, one Saturday morning, when Colin’s popped down for fresh baker’s bread and Harry’s snoring in bed still and Louis discovers a fresh-bought bottle of lube in the bathroom, he does feel a little bit, well— in need of extra affection.

“Haz.” He crawls back up on the bed and splays himself out atop of Harry, face in the nape of his sweaty neck.

Harry shifts, violently, so unexpected that Louis doesn’t have a chance to hold on and topples right off of him.

“Jesus,” he chuckles, from where he’s landed flat on his back.

Harry grunts in response, a low angry-sounding thing, and sets his teeth in Louis’ shoulder. When Louis winces and laughs a little, trying to push him off, he growls, loudly, grabbing both Louis’ wrists and pushing them into the mattress. He’s covering Louis in the same move, legs between his thighs, cock hard and fat beside Louis’, near purple at the drooling tip of it. His knot is swollen, more than it’s ever been just from being asleep.

“Jesus,” Louis says again, breathless as he tries to catch Harry’s gaze. His eyes are wild, pupils shot, and his face is all red and sweaty, little curls matted to his forehead. “Hazza. Harry.”

Before he has a chance to gain any sort of connection, Harry’s surging down, biting at his neck, growling into his skin. Louis gives up on trying to understand him, and lays slack, pliant, sniffing Harry’s hair as Harry licks and spits on his skin, bites too hard and then soothes it with sloppy wet kisses. He smells good, particularly good this morning, nasty in a way, like he hasn’t showered in a week, but Louis’ body likes it. Needs it.

Harry bites Louis’ lip when he tries to go for a kiss, then his tongue and then Louis gives up on that altogether.

“You smell so good,” Harry grunts, between all sorts of animalistic noises, ranging from deep growls to almost whimpering, “ungh, baby _._ ”

“Ah, _god_ ,” Louis hisses, when Harry stuffs two fingers up his slick hole, then pulls them out again, almost like he only did it just to demonstrate that he could. Just to feel Louis inside, like he feels up the rest of his arse. “Harry, you—”  

He’s silenced by a sweaty palm getting slapped over his mouth. “Don’t talk.”

He quiets under Harry then, watches him, listens to him, gets so wet from just that that when Harry finally does flip him onto his stomach, pull his hips up and drive hard up into him, it’s all he can do not to come in the same instant. Harry plasters himself over his back with a deep groan, knees in the pits of Louis’, Louis folded up completely, just barely holding himself up on his elbows.

Harry fucks like he’s got a deadline to make, fast and brutal from the moment he first thrusts in, one goal in mind only. Just as he reaches it, Louis realises they aren’t alone anymore.

“Fuck, you look so good,” Colin’s saying, and he’s standing by the side of the bed watching, brown paper-bag of baker’s bread on the nightstand, cock just out of his trousers.

Harry makes a broken-off sound, shifting backwards at the shock of it, and it’s too late to hold back now so instead of coming inside Louis and knotting him like it seemed he was going to, he ends up creaming all over his arsecheeks instead. He gives a loud groan, frustrated almost, and starts desperately gathering come from Louis’ arse, trying to shove into his hole.

“Wow,” Colin breathes, stepping closer, reaching under Louis and taking his dick in hand.

Louis gives an appreciative moan from where’s got his face buried in the pillow, panting so hard he can’t think, but just as it gets really good, there’s a slap and then no hand on his cock.

“No,” he whines pathetically, lifting his head enough to look back.

Harry’s hips are still flush to his arse, cock rubbing up against his hole, and his brows are furrowed angrily, nostrils flared. He puts his hand on Louis’ dick before Louis has a chance to ask what just happened, and then he comes, shooting into the sheets, and forgets all about it. He’s still panting minutes later, Harry’s weight pressing down on his back, sweaty chest heaving against him, face buried in the back of his shoulder. His arms have snaked around his body, nails scratching up his sides, and he’s still whimpering like a wounded fucking animal, rocking his hips into Louis.

Louis glances up at Colin, who’s just standing, watching, jerking himself off, and feels a sudden stab of sympathy, remembering himself in that situation not too long ago. He nods for Colin to come closer, lays his head sideways down and covers his teeth so Colin can fuck into his mouth.

“Oh yeah,” he moans, gentle fingers smoothing Louis’ sweaty hair back from his face, “oh, yeah, just like that, babe, that’s—”

He’s cut off by the most feral sound Louis’ ever heard out of Harry’s, or anyone’s, mouth.

Before Colin has a second to look up, he gets Harry’s entire body slammed into him, violent enough that he’s tackled directly onto the ground. “Argh, _fuck_!”

“What the fuck?” Louis exclaims, jumping up in the messy sheets.

Just as he does, he witnesses Harry set his teeth into the front of Colin’s shoulder and Colin’s face screw up in pain. He screams.

Louis’ heart is pounding so hard he’s going delirious from it, but when he realises the furniture isn’t going to come alive and help him no matter how much he flicks his panicked gaze around he just throws himself forward.

“Stop! Fucking hell, stop, you’re hurting him!” he screams, punching and shoving at Harry. He falls backwards and then kicks, both feet at once, directly into Harry’s flank, and he finally topples off with a loud groan.

Louis crowds over Colin. He can’t tell how deep the bite is, because there’s too much fucking _blood_ in the way. Colin’s panting up at him, eyes wide with shock.

“Why the fuck would you do that?!” Louis screams, glancing over at Harry, “what the fuck is wrong with you?!”

Harry’s teeth are bared, smeared with blood, nostrils flaring out wildly, and his pupils are so dilated his eyes look black. “I don’t know, I, I don’t know, I— don’t, fuck,” he babbles frantically, “fuck, fuck, _shit_!” he hisses, scrambling to get up, “fuck, I don’t know, I’m so sorry, I—”

He grabs the doorjam and pulls himself up, then runs into the bathroom and makes a load of slamming- and scrambling noises.

“Does it hurt?” Louis asks, turning back to Colin.

“Yeah,” Colin breathes, face one big frown, “yeah, it’s— fuck, that hurt, yeah.” He twists his head, looks at the bite, “don’t think it’s too deep, though.”

Harry comes stumbling back from the loo with the first aid-kit. He’s rambling nonsensically, _I’msosorryIdon’tknowwhathappenedI’msosorry_ , dropping to his knees by Colin and opening the little tin-can on trembling fingers.

“Let me,” Louis says quickly, taking it off him, “just, you— ehm… maybe back up a little, Haz.”

“Yeah, I— yeah, fuck, I’m gonna—”

He pushes himself back on the carpet, rummages round his suitcase and then disappears down the hall.

Louis stays with Colin, forcing himself to remain calm as he dabs off the wound. Colin seems to be right; it’s not too deep. Louis cleans him up thoroughly anyway, then finds a band aid and pads it on. They don’t speak as he works, and it isn’t until Louis’ finished and sat back on his bum, that he realises something not a lot short of disturbing.

“Did you… come from that?”

“Oh.” Colin squeezes his thighs together like that somehow diminishes the pool of come on his belly. “Ehm… I was already pretty much done for, so… but yeah. Yeah.”

Louis sighs exasperatedly, inching back on the carpet until he can lean against he wall and pull his knees up to his chest. “This is so fucked up.”

“You don’t say,” Colin snorts, swirling a finger round in his sperm-puddle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to say that on my tumblr blog I've made a sort of link with a cover-thing for this fic, so if you're into reblogging or stuff like that, it's there :D


	16. Chapter 16

Once he gets round to leaving the bedroom and have a look downstairs, he finds that Harry’s left the house. An hour later, they still don’t know his whereabouts and, when they attempt calling him, his phone goes off right where he left it; on Louis’ nightstand. They shower, get dressed, make sandwiches and watch telly, and Harry still isn’t back. When the clock rounds five pm, Louis calls Niall up. He’s home and _no, Harry isn’t here, he left, like, weeks ago_ , and _why the fuck hasn’t your cunty arse been by in, like, weeks?_ and _can I come pay my respects where Betty’s buried?_

“Babe, relax, he’s a grown man, he’s probably just gone to hang with some friends and cool off a bit,” Colin says, from where he’s slouched on the couch, feet up on the armrest, trying to open a walnut on his teeth. “You act as though your five-year-old disappeared at the playground.”

“No, but…” Louis trails off purposely, chewing on his nail instead of speaking. “Okay.”

He pushes Colin’s feet aside with his bum, sitting down on the armrest, and stares apathetically at the telly.

“How’s your shoulder feeling?” he asks after a moment.

“Fine.”

Louis nods, even though Colin isn’t looking at him, and resumes to chewing down the nail of his thumb until he’s almost bleeding.

It isn’t that Harry hasn’t left since he’s been here; he has. He’s been three days in Ireland, or Scotland, or wherever it was, and he’s slept over at friends’ or gone up to Cheshire to visit his family, but this is different; for one, he’s left his phone here. For two, he’s left just after trying to bite off Colin’s shoulder in a completely unprompted and random burst of wrath. So, yeah. Louis’ a little bit worried.

He falls asleep on the couch, waiting up for Harry, checking his phone every minute, as though he hasn’t got Harry’s own phone clutched in his other hand. He told Niall and the lot to text if Harry suddenly appeared at their doorstep, but they don’t text at all. Well, they do, the selfish fuckers, but it’s always something completely un-Harry related, which plays with his bloody nerves. _Gets on_ his bloody nerves. If he weren’t so fucking hellbent on not letting them know what’s been going on these last couple months, he’d be telling them off, but as it is, they don’t even know Harry’s been staying here. Probably think he went back to L.A. or New York or wherever else he’s got a random unknown friend to house him till the paps get news of his location.

Anyway, Louis falls asleep on the couch and wakes Sunday morning to the sound of nothing.

The house is quiet. So terribly quiet. It stays like that all day, because Colin’s beginning to worry too, knowing Harry hasn’t even been by the lad’s flat and told them where he’s off too. Harry doesn’t arrive back Sunday, or Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. After the first day of no response, Louis buries himself in work, corresponding closely with his editor, who’s just read through his final bookdraft and, to put it nicely, has a few correctional suggestions here and there.

Thursday, Louis’ just spent three hours with his face in a screen, looking over notes, when he receives a call.

“Mate,” Zayn says, “just wanted to let you know, H’s just been by the flat to pick up some of his shit. Just remembered you’d been asking.”

Louis shoots up in the couch much faster than he’d care to admit. “Yeah? S’he, eh— where’s he off too? Where’s he been?”

“Said he’d been to Paris. Went early Sunday, I think he said. Came round here early morning yesterday, about… I dunno, seven-ish? Gathered some of his shit and left again, said he had another flight to catch.”

“Paris?” is what Louis manages to pick up.

He doesn’t know why he’s acting all surprised. Harry’s got the money, time and freedom to go anywhere in the world he wants. He’s not in a relationship, he’s not in love or fucking soul-bound, he doesn’t owe anyone anything, especially not Louis.

But it would’ve been nice with a text, is all.

“Yeah,” Zayn says, “anyway, I’ve gotta run, mate, but he told me to text him on his new cell from now on out cause he lost his old one.”

“Did he now?” Louis croaks out, all too aware where that ‘old phone’ really is, “that’s what he said?”

“Yeah. I’ll text you the number if you haven’t got it.”

Harry didn’t just leave; Harry left because he wanted to get away from Louis. So much so that, even as he’s found the time to come back and pick his things up from the lad’s flat, he can’t be arsed to come round for two seconds and get his phone off Louis. He’d rather pretend like he’s lost it altogether, like it doesn’t exist, like none of it happened, erased from his memory. Like it didn’t mean anything at all.

Louis swallows, scratching at his throat. “Yeah, that’d be nice, thanks.”

 

*

 

He doesn’t know why he’s being such a pathetic cunt about it. It clearly didn’t matter, any of what’s been going on, they’re clearly nothing more than they’ve always been, when it comes down to it, so Louis shouldn’t be pacing round his livingroom like a fucking idiot, sweaty-palmed over whether or not to call Harry up on his ‘new phone’.

When it’s been four hours since Zayn’s call and Colin’s just texted that he’s off work and he’s picking up McDonald’s on the way home, Louis gives in.

The phone seems to ring for ages before Harry picks up.

“Yeah?” his voice is hoarse, deep and so missed that Louis’ stomach swoops stupidly. It’s only been a week.

“It’s Louis,” he says after a beat, realising Harry hasn’t got this number coded into his new phone.

There’s a noise on the other end, so screechy Louis can’t tell whether it’s an exasperated sigh or something better. Worse. “You’re calling overseas,” is what Harry says, when he finally says something.

“What?”

“You’re calling— I’m in L.A., so… watch your, uhm, phone bill.”

Louis stills in the middle of the livingroom. “You’re in L.A.? But, I don’t… you were just in—”

“Went by Zayn and the lot’s yesterday morning. I think. Yeah. God, I’m a bit jetlagged, but uhm… yeah, so I went to L.A. after. Cause I was just getting some of my stuff. My guitar and my bong and that.”

His most priced possessions. Louis feels queasy. “You’re across the Atlantic right now?”

“As we speak,” Harry drawls, in the same low, bored tone as before. “So you should, uhm… the phone bill.”

“Fuck the fucking phone bill, Harry, are you all right? I mean, I— I, what are you—” he doesn’t know what else to say, feels a lump in his throat that wasn’t there a second ago, feels like he wants to ask so many things he knows he doesn’t have the right to. He doesn’t even have the right to say what he does end up letting out; “I was worried about you.”

There’s a sharp puff of air on the other end, then silence. Louis waits, gut clenching up with impatiance. “Don’t worry about me,” Harry says after a while, voice softer, “how are you?”

Louis clears his throat. “I’m fine.”

“How’s Colin? Is he, I mean, the, uhm—”

“Yeah, yeah, he’s— it’s, yeah. Wasn’t too bad, once we’d dabbed the, ehm… blood off,” Louis rambles, “he’s not, like… angry at you or anything.” _So you can come back. You can come back to me, it’s safe. Please_. “You’ve left your phone and clothes here.” _And me_.

Harry’s quiet on the other end.

“Anyway, ehm…” Louis goes on, once he starts to feel ridiculous, “I was just calling t—”

“Apologise to him from me. Colin.”

“Oh. Ehm.” Louis nods, at no one. “Yeah, I’ll, of course. Yeah.” He’s gone from scratching at his throat to his collarbone instead, clawing at it nervously. “So, ehm, L.A., that’s— what’s suddenly brought you all the way across—”  

There’s noise on Harry’s end, cutting Louis off. Someone’s speaking to him. Louis doesn’t have a chance to make out the voice and whether it’s familiar before there’s a scrambling and then no noise at all. He waits, tongue between his teeth, until the scramble comes back and then finally, Harry’s voice; “sorry, I just had to, uhm— anyway, I’ve actually got to, uhm… like…”

“Yeah, no, of course,” Louis cuts through, because he knows the end of that sentence, but he doesn’t really need to have the sugarcoated version of _take a fucking hint and leave me alone_ spelled out to him, “you do your… thing, then. Better watch that phone bill, eh?” Harry chuckles at that, but it’s belated, a pitying little thing that makes Louis want to strangle himself for a second, “so I’ll, eh… see you, then.”

He tries not to make it sound like a question.

“Yeah, uhm,” Harry drawls, “I’ll text you when, uhm… when I’m back in England.”

Louis nods, swallowing at the stupid lump. “You do that. Yeah.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

There’s a moment where Louis’ trying to come up with something to say, some magical little piece of information or wit that’ll make Harry never want to stop speaking to him ever again, but by the end of that moment his lips are still pressed tightly together and Harry’s line cuts off.

  

*

 

It’s once he isn’t able to excuse his excessive Harry-obsessing with the fact that he’s worried about his well-being that it really starts to get on his nerves. After the stunted phone-conversation Thursday evening, Louis sends Harry two texts in a row - **glad ur ok :)** and **fyi colin really isnt cross he says he understands** \- both receiving exactly the same response; none.

Since Colin doesn’t exhibit any sort of concern for Harry or when he’ll be back, at least not anyway near the extent that Louis feels inside, Louis tries to follow suit. Forces himself not to dwell on the persistent ache in his chest, the one he just wants to scratch right out of there with his bare nails, or the way his stomach twists up so horribly every time he does allow himself to think about Harry and where he is and who he’s with and whether he’s fully forgotten Louis yet. The not knowing is excruciating. The not having any fucking right to demand knowing is worse.

Louis buries himself in work again, because it’s the only thing he can do. When Colin’s home, everything’s just sort of… sad. Quiet. Careful in a way that makes him feel like he’s been thrust into a house with a complete stranger, like there’s an elephant in every single room and they’re both too busy pretending to care about the weather or what’s on telly to address it.

He’s determined not to go by the lad’s flat, because if he did, he’d only be sniffing around for Harry, tempted to go up to his loft just to look for unwashed underwear or maybe, possibly, hopefully a Harry lying asleep, exhausted from just having jetted back to London to see Louis again. Which is ridiculous. He knows. Utterly ridiculous. So, he doesn’t go by there.

Until he actually has a valid reason to.

“What do you mean, my sex life?” Liam asks, when he and Louis have situated themselves across from each other in couches, both with their feet up on the coffee-table, Louis with his laptop out, twelve different wordsheets open.

He came unannounced, which was stupid, he realised as he arrived and was let in by Viv. Honestly, he hadn’t even expected her to be hanging round the flat anymore; Liam’s relationships never last very far past the mark where holding out on sex goes from romantic and gentlemanly to _wait, does he even want to?_. But, they’re they are. There she is, sitting in the third couch, nose in her phone, ears wide open, making it virtually impossible to work any credible information out of Liam.

“Ehm…” Louis picks at a dirty old sticker by his touch-pad, “just, ehm… sorry, I’ve, ehm— sorry, Viv, would it be all right if Liam and I spent a bit of time alone together?”

She glances up from her phone. “Oh. Right, yeah, course.”

“No, wait,” Liam exclaims, “that’s not fair, you came over without warning, you can’t just tell my girlfriend to leave.”

A load of uncoordinated howls erupt from over at the kitchen island. “Girlfrieeeeeend, uuuuh,” Zayn sing-songs.

“Congratulations, mate, was about time you sealed that shit,” Niall yells, jumping off his stool to run over and non-consensually high-five Liam. “Viv,” he turns to her, catching her just before she’s made her way around the couch, effectively trapping her, “oh, sweet Vivian.” He slaps both hands onto her shoulders. “I commend you. You’ve taken one for the entire female population. You will be rewarded, in your next life.”

“Ehm... thanks, I think?”

He goes to pet her cheek, smiling like a proud dad and she averts, crawling under his arm and making a run for Liam’s bedroom. When Niall turns, Liam’s scowling at him. “You’re a prick.”

“You’re a lucky man,” Niall replies, “what’s that, your first proper girlfriend in, what… fuckin’ hell, seven years?”

“That’s bad luck,” Louis pips for no reason.

Liam shrugs a shoulder, but there’s something about the twitch on the crook of his mouth, the crinkles round his eyes and the way he overdoes his irritation with the situation. He’s proud of himself. He’s basking in it, the ridiculous macho-laddy glory that he’s in. He’s gotten himself a girlfriend.

“Sorry,” he says after ages of acting like he hated Niall and Zayn’s _Liam’s got a girlfriend_ -dance, but failing to contain his laughter, “what were you saying, Lou?”

“Oh, just asking ‘bout your sex life.”

“What sex life?”

Louis laughs. Liam does too, after a beat.

They talk about Liam’s sex life, as best they can with Niall and Zayn looking over their shoulders. As opposed to one certain Irishman Louis knows quite a bit better than he’d like to have, Liam’s always been private about this part of himself. Even in the writing of the book about him and his Snip, he’s shied away from specifics and kept to the theory of it all as much as possible. Now, Louis’ editor’s asked him to include a few more details of the particular alpha that the book is based around, mainly how his own sex and love-life lives on after the snip.

“Well, ehm, I do have to admit,” Liam says, clearing his throat more than twice in between, “there’s a part of me that wishes I could just, you know, pounce on my girl.”

Niall and Zayn burst out laughing. “Pounce on her,” Zayn echoes, slamming his fist into his palm.

“Sounds violent,” Louis notes.

“Don’t ya, like, when you’re, you know, fuckin’ her, don’t you wish you didn’t have to take those fuckin’ pills first? Those little blue fuckers?” Niall asks. “Just, fuckin’ pounce on her without having to wait?”

Liam chuckles uncomfortably. “I mean, yeah, I suppose,” he says, “yeah, I suppose I… yeah. At times, you know. When she’s just lying there, all spread out, you know, wet and shit. Just begging for it. But I think I do all right. Viv’s so hot I don’t really need those pills, if you know what I mean. The alpha prevails.”

The lads laugh. Louis writes down the most useful parts of it.

After a while, Zayn and Niall get bored of being nuisances and scramble off. Louis tries to dig some useful information, something real, something genuine, something fucking _honest_ , out of Liam, but either Liam’s lying, for what reason Louis won’t pretend to know, or Louis doesn’t know his friend half as well as he thought he did.

Either way, after half an hour they’re interrupted for good.

“Harry’s in the car! Someone do the dishes before he gets here!” Zayn yells from his bedroom.

“Why the fuck would we do that? Who the fuck is he, the queen of England or some shite?!” Niall yells from the toilet.

“He’s been paying half our rent the past three months, have some respect!” Zayn screams back, and yet doesn’t come out of his room at all.

In the end, it’s Liam who gets up and into the kitchen. Louis doesn’t protest because he’s too busy staring into thin air, biting his nails down till they hurt. Harry’s in the car. Harry’s almost here. Harry’s back in England, Harry’s back today, nobody bothered to  _fucking_ warn him.

He can’t even bring himself to yell at anyone, due to the fact that a) there’s no one around him and b) he’s too caught up in stressing over his outfit and the way he styled his hair today.

Harry’s back. Harry is coming here. 

Once the doorphone goes off and Niall buzzes Harry up, Louis’ stomach has tied itself up in a million tiny knots. He’s a pathetic wreck. There are words in his head, sentences that he keeps going over and over, re-molding and re-phrasing until they don’t make any bloody sense at all and he’s been staring deadly at the wall for a minute straight.

“Colin isn’t cross,” he mutters to himself, fixing his fringe for the thousandth time since the news of Harry’s homecoming was thrust upon him, “Colin isn’t cross. You can come back to me. To us. Colin isn’t cross.”

“Mate,” Zayn says, finally coming out of his cave and slapping a hand onto Louis’ back, “talking to yourself again?”

“Better than talking to you,” Louis snaps back, and it isn’t remotely funny, somewhat due to his half-arsed muttered delivery, but Zayn grants him a dry snort of a laugh before trotting off toward the hall.

The front door gets opened, shoving in a violent gust of scent that hits Louis’ nose almost instantaneously. A never-ending _hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii_ gets drawled from the stairway. Louis’ stomach gets flipped upside down and then put back in place again, except not really and he’s forgotten whatever the fuck he’d been planning to say. He’s the only one still in the livingroom.

Pulling himself together, he heads out into the hall.

Liam’s holding the handle of Harry’s single suitcase, more of a symbolic gesture than actually helping anything, Viv’s standing beside him, smiling sweetly, Niall is laughing manically at the end of something Harry’s just drawled and Zayn is slouched back against the wall, hands in his pockets.

“Yeah, she’s just on the phone with her mum,” Harry’s saying to Niall, and if it weren’t for the flinch in his expression, the ever so unsubtle flare of his nostrils, he could’ve gotten away with pretending like he hasn’t noticed Louis at all. But he has. “She’s, uhm…” he trails off, gaze gliding over Niall’s shoulder, landing on Louis. It stays there for a full second, and then he shifts weight, licks over his lips and looks back at Niall again.

The lump in Louis’ throat has returned, more insistent than ever. Harry doesn’t look the least bit happy to see him.

Thirty seconds later, Louis realises why.

The lift doors re-open from behind Harry, who’s still standing halfway out in the stairway, and one ridiculously long leg steps out, followed by one more and then a black leather-suitcase. She’s got on soft grey joggers, an oversized maroon hoodie and big black sunglasses that she’s pushed up, holding her smooth dark hair back from her face. She’s Kendall Jenner.

To say that Louis’ stomach drops would be an understatement. It fucking plummets. 

“Hi guys,” Kendall says, a bit shyly, coming up to Harry’s side.

She begins to introduce herself to everyone, and the other way round, and Louis finds himself sliding backwards into the livingroom before she gets to him. He leans back against the wall, staring at the one across from him, trying to comprehend what he’s feeling. If he can comprehend it, maybe he can control it. If he can control it, maybe he can make it stop hurting like this.

They’re talking still, out in the hall, about the flight, about Kendall’s recent gig in Paris, about the fact that everyone’s so fucking endeared by the fact that she isn’t too good for staying in a tiny little regular-human flat like this.

And Louis’ just standing here, alone in the livingroom, like a fucking idiot, trying to understand.

But, they broke up. They broke up, they weren’t a thing anymore, he isn’t hers, she isn’t his, not anymore. With everything he has in his stupid, biologically enslaved body, everything he hates about it, Louis’ thinking _he’s mine. I’m his. He knotted me, that meant something_.

It’s only his body, he tells himself, when the rest of the lot venture into the livingroom and he’s forced to shake her hand and introduce himself and pretend like he doesn’t want to scratch her stupid eyeballs out for taking what’s his. It’s only his body, it’s playing a trick on his mind, he tells himself, when he makes up a lie so he can leave and tries not to whimper out loud when the last thing he sees is Kendall planting herself in the lap of what’s fucking _his_. Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS. Just wanted to note, there was a person named 'Kenzie' who commented after my last chapter and if you're reading this, I didn't delete your comment because I found it rude, but rather because when you put a comment on the first chapter of a fic, referring to something happening far into the fic, that might spoil it for someone who starts to read it from the beginning later on. Hope that made sense:)


	17. Chapter 17

He walks home, all the way, and it takes him three hours because he stops three times, first to buy cigarettes, then to smoke cigarettes, then to buy a pair of headphones because he didn’t bring any and he’s been walking in the wrong direction all along and now he’s got a fuckload of walking in the right direction to do and he can’t do it alone with his head. He listens to obnoxious electronic music, which he would’ve done anyway, but it seems more important today because it’s specifically meant to drown out his thoughts.

By the time he makes it home, the car is parked in it’s usual spot and the downstairs windows are lit, cosy and yellow.

Everything’s idyllic inside, candles on the coffee-table and Colin cuddled up in front of the telly, greeting him without so much as moaning a little bit about the fact that Louis wasn’t home when he was and that he didn’t even bother to text where he’d gone.

It’s all idyllic and domestic and lovely, yes, but the telly’s on low and the headphones are lying on the console table in the fronthall with Louis’ phone, and it’s quiet in here. Quiet enough to hear his own thoughts. Feel his own heartbeat, still too fast, not because he walked at high speed, but because it’s been going at that rate since he saw her come out of the lift three hours ago. It’s purely physical, of course it is, but it’s hard to remember that when all he can feel, all he can see, is the image of her planting herself in Harry’s lap. Stroking her gentle hand over his chin and smiling like she didn’t know what she was doing.

Which she didn’t.

Nobody knows. There’s a part of Louis, a stupid, greedy, biologically inbuilt part of him that wants them to. Wants to scream it from the rooftops, post it everywhere, make sure not a soul on this godforsaken planet doesn’t know that, only a few weeks ago, he and Harry were tied and, even if it only lasted for as long as Harry’s knot stayed swollen, they belonged to each other. Harry was his. _Is_ his. Fuck.

He can’t take it. He’s being melodramatic because he doesn’t know how to handle this all-consuming feeling, this thing he’s never known before because he’s never— fuck, he’s never been jealous before. Not like this; not like all his intestines have tied together, tightening still, moving on up through his chest, worse than anger, less explosive, much more dangerous.

He’s staring at the back of his husband’s head and his husband’s staring at the front of Emma Willis’ head, chuckling softly, and he’s feeling as though he’s been robbed of something, the rug from under him, his favourite action-man figure, all unfairly so, and it’s shit. It’s fucking shit.

Worst of it all is the fact that he isn’t fucking stupid enough not to know how fucking stupid that all is. How much it’s all self-inflicted, if not nobody’s fault at all, which somehow seems even worse, and how there’s just simply no way to justify feeling like Harry belongs to him. No one is anyone’s property, he knows that, he’s written that down himself, in a published book and referenced it, on national telly, but even if it weren’t so, Harry _still_ wouldn’t belong to him.

It just so happens that it very much feels that way right now, to Louis. Physically.

“Harry’s back in England. Just arrived at Niall and the lot’s,” he says to the back of Colin’s head, fingers jumping of their own accord, “didn’t even bother to tell us he was coming back.”

His brain is on a furiousunrelenting rant and he needs to let some of it out, needs someone to agree with the least of it, just to keep his head from exploding. Or his fist from punching into some innocent piece of furniture. He thinks, right now, in this moment of uncalled for, unjust, unyielding jealousy, that he feels the most alpha any omega ever has.

“Oh. Nice,” is what Colin says.

Louis licks over his teeth, mouth in a thin line. “What’s nice? That he didn’t bother?”

“Bother what?”

“Telling us. That he was coming back.”

“Oh,” Colin says, distracted, and doesn’t turn his head, “yeah.”

Louis doesn’t blink for a minute, he thinks. Colin doesn’t turn and it would’ve seemed provocative if Louis didn’t know Colin didn’t have that sort of thing in him. He’s genuinely caught up in watching some washed-up old TV chef enter the CBB-house. Louis hates him for it.

“He brought a friend,” he grits, “Kendall Jenner.”

Colin’s head moves, a minuscule amount. “Isn’t that—”

“Yeah. His ex-girlfriend. Well, not so ‘ex’ anymore, I suppose,” Louis snorts on bitterly.

Finally, Colin turns to look at him. It’s an annoying look he’s got in his eyes, loving, but concerned, eyes narrowed, looking Louis over. “Are you jealous?”

“No.”

“Are you hurt that he’s—”

“No.”

“Are you lying?”

“I- no.”

Colin sighs, like he’s gotten enough of an answer between the lines of Louis’ answers. He turns back to the telly. Louis doesn’t bother him anymore that evening. He knows if he did, he’d only end up saying something that he isn’t genuinely feeling, but feels _like_ he’s feeling right now, due to bodily defects, not his actual mind or heart, and accidentally hurting Colin.

So, he takes his phone and marches upstairs. He throws himself back on the bed, phone gliding out of his hand and onto the carpet. Just as he’s rolled onto his stomach and groaned loudly into the mattress, it buzzes. He picks it up and feels a mixture of terrible excitement and violent anger shoot through him.

**herald - are u ok**

He didn’t even bother with the question-mark.

Louis doesn’t know what to make of it, but all he can think of, reading that tiny text over and over and over, is where Harry sat when he wrote this. Was he on the couch, with her in his lap still, did he let her see the text or did he hide it and why does Louis want it to be the latter, why does that make him feel more significant somehow, why does he need to be?

 **yes** , he texts back, fighting the urge to immediately tack on something like _you fucking cunt_  or _say hi to kenny from me <3_ or something else that’s just too pathetic to bring into this world.

He fully expects a response, and a quick one at that. With everything he has in him, he expects a response.

So, needless to say, he launches the phone across the room when he realises, ten minutes later, that he isn’t going to get one. It doesn’t smash like it did last time he did this exact thing, but he kind of wishes it had, in the moment, because Harry gave him that phone and the child in him wants to ruin it just for that reason. The child doesn’t reign over quite enough of his body for him to jump out of bed, pick the thing up and smash it fully intentionally.

He does, however, jump out of bed and right down to his knees by the suitcase nobody’s moved, or even closed, since Harry left. There are three different, but identical white t-shirts lying in here, a chord for an iPhone-charger, an unopened pack of floss, bag of mint twists and, what do you know it, under an ugly green woolen sweater, there’s something as enraging as a pack of morning after pills. This _cunt_. This distrusting, Kendall-fucking, last minute plane to L.A.-hopping _cunt_. He’s probably ground them up and put them in Louis’ morning tea every day, just to be on the safe side.

Louis hates Harry. Louis hates Colin, who walks in right then, catching him with his red-flushed head in Harry’s suitcase, and says nothing, just sighs and locks himself in the bathroom. And Louis— _fuck_ , Louis hates himself. He hates himself for feeling strongly enough about any of this to hate anyone at all for it.

 

*

 

He hasn’t got anything on the next day, thank fuck, because he hardly slept at all last night. Colin woke twice, once to have a piss, once because Louis fell into bed a bit too violently when he came back from a 3 am-smoke by Betty’s grave. Both times, he looked Louis directly in the eye, pale grey ones clear in the dark, almost expressionless, then turned over, saying nothing till he fell back asleep.  

It’s 7 am now, and Louis’ awake, lying on his back, staring at the same spot in the ceiling that he has been for the past four hours. It’s a normal weekday for normal 9 to 5 people and Colin’s coming out of the bathroom now, looking nothing like normal. His eyes are red-rimmed, nosetip pink and cheeks puffy. Louis feels so horrible he thinks he might die from it.

“You all right, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” Colin says, lines of his back tense as he faces away from Louis while he buckles his belt. “You?”

“Yeah, course,” Louis says, too quick to be genuine, and sees the slight drop of Colin’s head, feels it in his chest.

Colin picks a clean white buttondown off the back of the chair in front of him and slides the sleeves on, still not turning around.

Louis swallows. “Colin, I—”

“I get it if you’ve fallen for him,” Colin cuts right through, toneless, unreadable, “I would too if he looked at me like he does you, I’m sure. It’s only natural.” He snorts a chuckle, but it’s cold, humourless, “it’s nothing _but_ natural, come to think of it. Alpha-omega and all.”

“Colin—”

“And, if that’s so, I completely get it if it’s painful what he’s done now. That he’s on to the next one and you’re left behind with boring old me.”

Louis sucks in a sobby breath, jerking up in the sheets. He isn’t crying, but he will be in a minute if Colin doesn’t shut the fuck up. “Fuck, you _know_ that isn’t—”

“I get all of that,” Colin speaks right through it, voice calm, half-muttered as he leans his chin down to button his shirt, “but I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again, darling,” he turns around, finally, looking at Louis icily, “do not go around thinking I’m an oblivious fucking idiot. I can tell, when you lie. I know you. I know everything about you, better than you do yourself.”

He glances down, doing the last button of his shirt while Louis fists up the sheets, staring at him.

“So,” he says, finally looking up at again, “the only thing you get out of lying to my open face, is reminding me just how little fucking respect you have for me.”

Louis gulps. “Darling, please,” he half-whispers pathetically, crawling toward the foot of the bed, but Colin walks out of reach, gets his tie off the top of his dresser and ties it in the corner of the room while Louis bites his lip, watching him. “It’s not like that, I’m just— I’m just angry at him.”

Colin laughs dryly. “There you go, doing it again.”

“What?”

“Fucking lying, Louis. You fucking lie, you’re fucking— you’re _fucking_ transparent, love,” he says, shaking his head like he can’t believe it. He finishes with the tie and begins to pull on the blazer that matches the trousers he’s got on today.

Louis clears his throat enough to speak. “I don’t think you’re boring,” he says, “I don’t, I don’t lie to you, I— I don’t mean to, I don’t… I’ve not fallen for him, I swear. I swear I haven’t.”

“I can’t listen to this right now,” Colin mutters in response, picking up his bag, “I can’t be late for my meeting.”

“What meeting?”

Colin looks at him blankly for a second, then snorts and shakes his head incredulously. “Course you’ve forgotten,” he says, “I’ve only been talking about it every day for the past week.”

Oh. Oh, god no. Even now, Louis can’t remember what it is he’s supposed to know about, but he can tell it’s important enough that forgetting was a horrible, thoughtless mistake. “I’m—”

“Yeah,” Colin waves him off, “it’s enough. It’s enough now.”

And then he’s out of the door and Louis’ sitting at the foot of the bed still, gripping the sheets, willing himself not to follow because making Colin late for the meeting on top of everything seems like the last thing he needs to do right now.

 

*

 

He’s selfish, he knows. He’s thoughtless, too, a terrible excuse for a husband. He’s worse lately, than he ever has been. At least he’d like to hope he hasn’t been like this always, he thinks to himself, as he walks briskly from the tube to the lad’s flat that same day, two hours after Colin’s left. It’s Liam who rings him up, grumbling into the doorphone about not being in the mood to be interviewed about the specifics of his dysfunctional penis, and Louis promises not to attempt at anything else than a bit of video-gaming and fridge-raiding.

Of course, he does have ulterior motives, whether he’d like to admit it to himself or not.

Soon as he walks into the flat, he knows that Harry’s still here. Half because of the smell, overwhelming as always, half because Kendall’s standing naked in the kitchen. Well, not _naked_ naked, she’s wearing a tight white spaghetti strap-top and a pair of oversized boxers. Belonging to Harry, Louis realises.

Fuck, he wants to kill her. Fuck, he wants to strangle her with his bare hands.

“Oh, hi, Lewis,” she says, smiling ever so fucking… smilingly at him, “I’ve just boiled the, uhm, water, do you want some tea or coffee?” she asks, like she fucking lives here. She doesn’t fucking live here.

“No thanks.”

“You sure? I don’t mind, I’ve just mastered, the like, art of making,” she makes air-quotes, “real tea,” she grins dorkily. He hates her.

“Yeah?” he croaks out, sitting down on a stool. Where is Liam? Where is everyone? Where is literally _anyone_ but her?

Like she’s read his mind - maybe she can, maybe she’s an evil mind-manipulating villain of sorts, maybe Louis can get rid of her on the grounds of that - Kendall says, “Liam legit just buzzed you up and then went straight to bed.”

Louis makes himself reciprocate her little laugh, and why isn’t she wearing a bra? Why must her firm little tits stare at him through the sheer fabric of her shirt like that? He wonders briefly whether Harry prefers tits over balls. Or cunt over arse. “Dick,” he says, “Liam.”  

She chuckles at that, and Louis is just about to ask where the fuck Zayn and Niall, or fucking Harry, is, when her eyes widen and she exclaims; “oh my gosh, I just remembered. I’ve started reading your book, it’s literally _so_ good.”

She looks at him like he’s supposed to jump and squeal or something, so he doesn’t. “Ah,” he says, forcing the crooks of his mouth up a polite amount, “why on earth would you read that rubbish?”

“Because it’s good and it was just lying up in Harry’s loft and, I mean, I know the author, so,” she says, missing his sarcasm entirely, “I mean, kind of, I guess. I don’t know. I guess I know you. Don’t I?”

 _Stop trying to talk to me_ , Louis wants to scream. _Stop trying to make me like you because you’re only setting yourself up for disappointment. Stop trying altogether because I’m sure you’re sweet and cool and lovely, but that only makes me hate you more, so it’s a lost cause, get the fuck out of my face. Out of Harry’s fucking boxers_.

“Uhm… Lewis?” she waves a hand in front of his face. “Are you all right?”

He blinks, shaking his head. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says slowly, looking at him like she’s worried he might be having a stroke, “nothing, I was just saying I liked the thing you wrote about how us omega’s are always, like—”

They’re interrupted by Harry before he even says anything. Louis smells it soon as he walks into the room, and Kendall does too, judging by the slight twitch of her nostrils.

“Oh,” is what Harry says, obvious as ever, “fuck.”

Louis stumbles backwards, not looking at the fucking fact that Harry just came down from the loft-room he’s been sleeping in with Kendall and is fucking naked. _Properly_ naked, no spaghetti-straps, no stolen boxers, no nothings, just that big fat piece of meat that’s been up both their cunts dangling between his legs. “I was just leaving.”

“Oh, I— you don’t, uhm,” Harry begins, but it’s so unenthusiastic that it would’ve been comical if it didn’t make Louis feel like the smallest, most insignificant, replaced little person in the world.

So, Louis marches for the door, not turning once, rambling off a quick excuse about having wanted to chat to Liam about something, so bye bye guys, bye _fucking_ bye.

He makes it about thirty feet down the pavement when Harry catches up to him, completely out of breath.

“What?” Louis hisses.

“I… hhh… I… hhh… what the fuck are you doing?” he forces out.

Louis glances sideways at him. He’s thrown on a pair of trackies and tied a long black parka around his naked chest. All his hair has fallen from the elastic he had it in before, wild around his beautiful face. There’s a strange mix of irritation and confusion etched in the lines of it.

“What the fuck am _I_ doing?” Louis asks, prying his gaze off of Harry and settling it on the pavement before him instead. “What the fuck are—” he shuts himself up, for once, and shakes his head. Hopes it comes off like he can’t be bothered, rather than just cutting himself off because he realised he had no right to ask what he was about to - _what the fuck are you doing? What the fuck are you doing with her, when you were mine, just two seconds ago? When you still are._

He doesn’t know whether Harry sees right through him or not, because what he replies is just; “stop for a second,” and when Louis keeps walking; “stop when I tell you to, you’re—”

Louis stops, only to whip around and spit; “I’m _what_? What am I, Harry?”  

_Yours. Yours, yours, yours._

“I…” he stares at Louis, look in his eyes conflicted, lips parted, and he shakes his head a little. “I was going into rut.”

“What?” Louis stops tripping for a second, mostly out of confusion. “You what?”

Harry sighs, shoulders drooping. “When I left,” he says, “when I’d bitten Colin. I was going into rut and I just realised— I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t control myself, okay?”

“You’d done fine till then,” Louis argues, and he doesn’t know why because it doesn’t look like there’s anything left to argue over. Harry’s made up his mind. “It was _one_ time, _one_ time you went a bit overboard. Is that really enough to just fuck it all and—”

“‘Fuck it all’?” Harry echoes on an incredulous scoff. He shakes his head, glances away from Louis, licks over his lips and then looks back at him. “Mate, what exactly was ‘it all’ to you?”

And— Louis doesn’t know the answer to that any more than Harry does. He shrugs, brows drawing closer. “I thought you and her were done ages ago. Was that—”

Harry makes an exasperated noise, glancing back as if to see whether she’s followed them. She hasn’t. There’s no one on this entire street, right now, save for the two of them. The strap of Harry’s coats loosened a bit, goosebumps under ivory and black-tatted skin showing all the way down his sternum.

“I was in rut,” Harry says after a beat, like that explains shit, “I needed… someone.”

“You had me,” Louis slips, regretting instantly, because that came out differently than— “I mean, you— you were fucking me. And Colin. You could’ve… you know.”

Harry smiles a little, all sad eyes and soft chapped pink lips that Louis misses on his skin. “I can promise you, with one hundred percent certainty, Lou,” he says quietly, “I’d have beaten the living shit out of him during my rut. I’d have bitten the back of your shoulder fucking— you know, gotten you worse off than he was. I— I’m really violent.”

Louis shakes his head. “You’re not violent.”

“How’s Colin’s shoulder, then?

Louis sighs. “You were violent, in that moment, that _one_ moment—”

“Not the first time,” Harry cuts through, eyes firmer, “not the first time I’d bitten him and you know it.”

“Yeah, but, but you’re not—”

“I’m not capable of sharing,” Harry says, a self-deprecating sort of smile spreading over his lips, “I’m just not. I can’t do it. It’s not me.”

And, Louis almost wants to tell him off for it, tell him that it wasn’t like he had the fucking time of his life watching Harry and Colin fuck, and yet he took it without complaint and managed to be, at least outwardly, all right with it. But he knows Harry well enough to know that’d only end up getting twisted into _well, there you go, then, neither of us are capable of it, so why the hell do it?_

“But, but— what, you, so… so you’re just back with her now? You’re just settling for someone you don’t—”

“Settling?” Harry laughs, dry and cold, “what, so being with someone who’s actually willing to drop everything in her hands and be around me and _only_ me, that’s— that’s settling, to you, is it? That’s settling, compared to, say, being a fucktoy sandwiched into some pathetic deadbed marriage?”

Louis’ lips drop apart, ready to speak, shout maybe, but he doesn’t get a chance to before Harry pummels on; “tell me this, Louis, cause I— maybe I’ve got it wrong here, but, but what exactly do you think would’ve happened if I’d stayed for another few weeks and then, one day, Colin had decided he was done with it?” he smiles, fake and manic, “poof, done, want him gone, that’s it, that was fun,” he says, gesturing wildly, “what would’ve happened then, Louis? Huh?”

“I don’t—”

“Yeah,” Harry snorts-chuckles, stepping backwards, scoffing his trainer up on the asphalt, “so I think you should, uhm… I think you should, like, not tell me anything about settling or— or stand there, looking all, like… gorgeous and sorry for yourself, because that’s just really,” he swallows thickly, “that’s just really not very fucking fair on me, is it?”

His gaze is on the ground now, crooks of his mouth drooping and Louis can’t help, just needs to reach out and touch. He wraps Harry’s soft, cold face up in his hands and tugs him closer, whimpering as he gets to press his nose into his cheek, breathe him in again.

“So, uhm,” Harry whispers, hands coming up to loop around Louis’ wrists, “so, I think what you need to do right now,” he says, prying Louis’ hands off of himself and stepping back, “is go home to your husband.”

“Harry—”

“Yeah,” Harry says, sniffling a little, not looking up, “yeah, so, uhm. Just don’t, you know,” he adds, looking up at Louis again, “don’t go around feeling sorry for yourself or anything. Because that’s really not fair on him. Or me.”

Louis takes a step forward. Harry takes another one backwards. “Don’t,” he says, eyes alarming, “I’m going to go now.”

He takes one more step backwards, then turns around and walks away, head bowed.

And, despite himself, Louis does the same.


	18. Chapter 18

He comes home to an empty house and stays in it, alone, not looking at his phone, e-mail or social media at all. He just lies there, flicking telly-channels for hours until it’s dark out and he hears Colin pulling into the driveway.

“Hey,” Colin says, loosening his tie as he walks into the livingroom, “meeting went well.”

“Yeah?” Louis says, fighting hard to sound properly enthusiastic. 

For the life of him, he can’t remember what meeting Colin was in today and he feels like shit for it. He wants to be the sort of husband who remembers these sorts of things, he wants to have cared enough this past week to have allowed the information to seep properly into his head and stay there, as opposed to spending every waken second transfixed by his phone, hoping for a sodding text from that fucking animal. He wants a lot of things.

“Great, love,” he says, forcing his smile to widen just a bit beyond what’s comfortable, “great, that’s— so, what’s, ehm—”

“I mean, I don’t know anything for sure,” Colin says, saving him from before he accidentally asks something with zero relevance to the meeting, “it was just an evaluation, just a chat, nothing overly formal. They don’t seem to have made up their minds at all,” he plops down beside Louis on the couch, yanks his tie off and sighs, “but... yeah.”

“Yeah?”

He rolls his head sideways on the backrest to look at Louis. “Yeah,” he says, smiling, “really reckon it went well. They seemed - I mean they’re all nice people so that doesn’t have to mean anything at all, but - but they seemed positive. Towards me. I think that’s good.”

Louis chuckles. “Yeah, that’s good. They seemed positive, course that’s good, darling.”

“Hm,” Colin hums, gaze studying Louis for a moment, and Louis’ almost a hundred percent certain he’s going to say something along the lines of _you still don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about, do you, you pathetic fucking excuse for a husband?_ but he doesn’t. He just sighs, rolls his head back and says; “but I shouldn’t get my hopes up. Trev and Marcus are putting in their best efforts too and, you know, they all claim breed doesn’t have any sort of effect on it at all, but that’s fucking bullshit, even if they think they’re blind to it, they aren’t. In the firm’s entire history, there’s never once been a beta who’s made partner. Hell, I think I’m making history just for being up for consideration at all.”

Right. Partner. Fuck. Partner-evaluation meetings - well, something along the lines of that. Fuck. “But you said it went well,” Louis backtracks, petting Colin’s hand, “and you’ve made it this far, despite your disadvantage, that’s cause you have something quite out of the ordinary. You’ve had to work double as hard and you’ve done it, you’ve accepted the rules of the game and you’ve succeeded, that’s _got_ to count for something.”

“I suppose.” Colin turns his hand into Louis’, fingers curling loosely around his, giving a little squeeze. “I suppose you could turn it around like that, yeah. Make it a good thing.”

“Yeah. Exactly,” Louis exclaims, instantly latching onto something remotely positive, “besides, you’ve said before that Trev’s a lazy bastard and Marcus wears a wig. I mean, that’s— that’s, you can’t possibly make partner whilst wearing a bleeding wig, that’s just ridiculous.”

He succeeds in dragging a little laugh out of Colin.

“So,” Colin says, turning to look at him again, smile fading off again, “you been over at Harry’s today?”

And— ouch. Just the mention of the name, after having finally managed to put it out of mind for a second, just the reminder of this morning’s painful conversation, it makes his heart sink at record speed. Takes him right back to that pavement, hours ago, hearing Harry say it’s over. It’s just done, that’s it, nothing more, _I’m with her, you’re with him, that’s the end of our story_.

It’s too terrible. It’s too terrible that he sits here, in the house that he owns with the man that he’s vowed to spend the rest of his life with and hurts him by hurting over someone else.

“You have, haven’t you?”

“Yeah,” Louis sighs, and then drops the bridge of his nose down between two fingers. There’s no use in lying. 

When, after a moment, Colin hasn’t made any sound but a long sigh, a wordless _I’m not surprised, but I wish that I had been_ , Louis lifts his head. Colin’s nodding at nothing, gaze glazed over, nail of his pointerfinger scratching at his chapped bottom lip. Louis wants to reach over and stop him, curl his hands around Colin’s and tell him this is all just one big sick joke and he doesn’t feel anything at all towards the person Colin, in full trust, let him have a bit of meaningless fun with, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t lie.

“How was he, then?” Colin asks, after a long while, voice calm, but joyless. He won’t look at Louis.

“Colin, I didn’t actually go over there to see him. I mean, he was there, but the intention wasn’t—”

Colin silences him with a lifted palm and an irritated sigh. “Save it.”

Right. Louis drops his gaze down into his own lap again, caught out and embarrassed with himself. He’s so fucking pathetic inside it’s a miracle someone as good at seeing right through him as Colin ever tolerates him. “Yeah,” he says, “sorry. I just meant—” he cuts himself off before he rattles off another deflecting excuse, and then cuts to the chase, “he’s got his girlfriend there. Kendall. They’re back on now, so. He’s not coming back here.”

He hates that it hurts to say those words aloud. He hates that that’s the most prominent feeling inside him, right now.

“That’s a pity,” Colin says dryly, “things were really heating up between the three of us. You were more excitable than you’ve been in ages.”

“Come on, darling, you know that’s not true.”

Colin shrugs. “Hm.”

“I’m excited just to be with you, we don’t need— we can fuck, just the two of us, we’ve fucked just the two of us our entire relationship, minus these last couple months,” Louis says, pleading, pathetic, as he throws a leg over Colin’s and climbs into his lap, “please,” he says, gathering Colin’s face up in his hands, tipping it back to look him in the eye.

Colin’s eyes are tired, the palest grey in the light of the loft-lamp just above the couch, beautifully framed by black lashes and sweet crow’s feet. “I love you,” Louis says, “I’ve loved you since I was fifteen and you have to give me this, you have to let me have fucked up on this one and not make that into me having been like this all along.”

A couple months of sex doesn’t, couldn’t ever, have anything on having loved one another for years, like lovers, like friends, like family. They’re fucking  _family_. Nothing else could ever measure up.

“I’m not the sort of person who can fuck without falling in… to some stupid physical attachment sort of... feelings, we’ve figured that out now,” Louis goes on, biting his lip at the slight flinch in Colin’s expression. He doesn’t say anything though, because he did know already, despite Louis having so vehemently denied it. He knew. “But please, you have to admit, we’ve not exactly been clear about the rules, have we? After he began sleeping here, I didn’t know… I didn’t know anything. I just knew we were all growing close to each other, and that meant something to me, however shorttermed it was. So, naturally, it does hurt a bit… now that he’s gone, so abruptly.”

Colin’s sighs out through his nostrils, lips pressed together in a thin line. He nods, after a beat. “Yeah,” he says, “he _is_ a lovely lad, it wasn’t like I didn’t enjoy having him here. I do miss his shower-singing and dishwashing and dimples... so. I get it.”

Louis nods, reciprocating the smile that’s creeped onto Colin’s face. “Yeah,” he says, “so—”

“But I’m also glad it ended now, rather than much longer down the road,” he says, “so we don’t, like… get in over our heads, yeah?”

Louis swallows dryly. “Yeah,” he says, and pretends like he doesn’t know that ‘we’ meant ‘you’.

 

*

 

The next little while, things soften up between the two of them. Things are going good at work for Colin and it rubs off at home. He’s sweeter, more easy-going, more forgiving, which is all quite incredible considering those three adjectives have always been ones that described Colin’s person anyway. Things are good, for the most part. Colin pretends not to notice when Louis spends an inordinate amount of time in the loo, looking at pictures of Harry and Kendall, spotted out around London, biting his fingernails down to the root and then biting down on the roots until it bleeds and hurts more than anything inside himself - which it never does. In turn, Louis pretends not to want the stupid alpha strap-on over Colin’s dick, ever, and not to notice when Colin looks more like he’s lifting much too heavy weights at the gym than having sex while they fuck.

Work does go well on both ends, though, gets them just about content enough that they manage to believe they’re doing all right.

Louis lands a four-page spread in a magazine, in which a photoshoot at their home is involved. He and Colin spend five hours beforehand, making their house look nothing like their house.

Louis’ manager arrives before the camera-crew with a fake fucking Betty, because _in the book, you have a dog, love, and pictures of the dog, and that means more to people than you think, makes you look like a proper family. This is basically the same dog, it makes no difference, we do want you to come across like the man who makes these book sell, don’t we?_  It’s fucking ridiculous, and the fake Betty isn’t even female, it’s a stupid ugly boy-pug named Gregory, fucking _Gregory_ , and Louis never says a fucking word in objection. He takes the stupid pictures in the couch they’ve just covered in ridiculously pricey throw-pillows they bought an hour ago, with a stupid fake smile on his face and a crampish hand on Colin’s knee and fucking Gregory salivating on his collarbone, and doesn’t say a word about it. This is his job, after all. Showing the world how fucking successful a beta-omega relationship can be.

Of course, as the camera-crew packs up, and Colin indulges in fake laughs and small-talk with Louis’ manager, Louis sits on the toiletseat and does what he always does when locked in here lately; obsessively and massively masochistically searches the internet for any sort of articles telling him a)where Harry is, b)what Harry does and, or c)who Harry fucks.

Whenever he doesn’t find anything new, he finds himself flooded with relief, because maybe, just maybe, he and Kendall aren’t together anymore, and then maybe, just maybe, Louis won’t have to lie awake at night, wondering how he’s fucking her this very minute. Soon after, though, comes the guilt, the horrible realization, time after time, day after day, that he isn’t over Harry at all yet. That he isn’t even getting closer.

If he does find something new, a picture of them walking from a restaurant to a car, sunglasses on, heads down, three feet of distance between them that they’ll instantly erase soon as they get inside Harry’s car and he puts his big hand on her thigh and she touches her soft little fingers to his— anyway, if he does find something of that sort, he feels like puking. He feels like crying. He feels, very momentarily, like spending immense amounts of time, plotting out the perfect way to murder her and get away with it. And then, after the initial wave of jealous rage dulls down a bit, he just feels like he would in the first scenario. Guilty, disappointed in himself, like the worst fucking husband in the world.

The day of the photoshoot, Louis does find something online. Something worse than any of the other times. An article posted just hours ago. An article full of photos. They’ve gone out to the cinema and then to eat and then out for drinks, but that isn’t bad, that’s not something he hasn’t seen before. What he hasn’t seen before, which this article - **Harry Styles joins girlfriend Kendall Jenner on group date around London with friends** \- is Harry and her on a fucking triple-date with Zayn and that new Perrie he’s been text-ranting about, and Liam and Viv.  

He goes over the pictures again and again and again, zooms in on Harry’s hand reaching round the small of Kendall’s back as they walk out of the restaurant and he laughs at something Zayn’s just said, dimples all out, charm galore. He tilts his head sidways, as though it’ll help him see more, see where Harry’s hand actually touches her, if his pinky brushes skin where her top’s ridden up her lower back. Fuck, he’s burning up inside, eyes prickling, throat tight, fingers buzzing and shaking, he wants to sucker-punch them apart, he wants to kill her, he wants to watch them fuck, he wants to— oh, he’s going insane.

He’s actually going insane.

He feels betrayed, not just by Harry, but by all of his best friends. They don’t even know what they’ve done, but he hates them for it anyway. They’ve allowed themselves to become charmed by her, her big bambi eyes and giraffelegs, her youthful glow, - four years Louis’ junior, he’s practically a fossil compared to her - they’ve betrayed him something so terribly.

 

*

 

His mood gets taken out on Colin, even though he doesn’t mean for it to. They have sex in the evening and instead of forcing himself to be as into it as he sometimes isn’t, Louis lies still like a starfish, not reacting unless he genuinely likes what’s happening. It’s not his intention to be like that, but he just can’t find it in himself to fake enthusiasm tonight, he just can’t pretend like it’s the best pounding he’s ever taken, he can’t even get his head into the right space, maybe he should just call it a night, he—

“Look at me,” Colin says, jerking him out of his head, staring down at him from where he’s hovering above, “for fuck’s sake, are you even enjoying this?”

“Yes,” Louis exclaims, tightening his legs around Colin’s waist, “yes, you can— just come on, harder.”

Which is pretty much the only thing he’s been saying all throughout this fuck-session. Normally, he tries to avoid the overuse of that particular word because, at this point, to Colin, _harder_ translates into _more_ , which translates into _bigger_ , which inevitably translates into _alpha_. So he tries not to, but he can’t help himself tonight. He misses something big, something bigger, he misses the slight violence of it, physical as well as something more than that, he misses the fucking _smell_.

“Harder, please,” he goes on begging, digging his nails into the back of Colin’s shoulders, “give me to me, hard as you want, come on, I’ve— I’ve been so bad, you can, you can punish me.”

“Shut up,” Colin grits, and there’s no glimpse of humour or tease to find in his expression, so Louis obliges. Colin does fuck a bit harder, though, and it’s better, but not good, it’s a taste of something, just a tiny little lick of it, but he wants more, he needs more.

“Yeah, like that,” he tries, “yeah, you can do it, you’re so good, please, harde—”

He’s shut up, effectively. He’s shut up, for the very first time in their entire relationship, by a slap right across the cheek. It’s hard enough that it jerks his face sideways into the pillow. “I said, shut the _fuck_ up.”

Louis clutches his cheek, still stinging, burning hot, and looks back up at Colin. His lips have parted, breath coming out in fast little huffs, but he doesn’t say anything. Can’t come up with a single word.

“You, just—” Colin pants, staring down at him, brows knitted together, face so red it looks painful, “fuck, you just need to shut the fuck up, please,” he sighs, burying into the crook of Louis’ neck, hand coming up to cup the cheek he just slapped. “I’m trying so hard, babe, for fuck’s sake.”

“I love you,” Louis replies, and then he comes, Colin’s nails scratching up his sore cheek.

Afterwards, Colin goes and showers and Louis fights not to look at his phone.

 

*

 

The next evening, Colin comes home with a friend. Louis is lying on the couch, flicking through channels and eating day-old chicken nuggets when it happens. The friend is a guy from work, apparently, a new bloke. He’s tall, with wavy blonde locks, looks like he spends most of his free-time at the gym and is, most definitely, alpha. Colin, who never usually befriends anyone at work because he’s too compassionate to be competitive once he gets to know people, excuses bringing a random stranger home with _Dick’s new in town, doesn’t know a lot of people so I invited him over for take-out and telly_. They end up picking something off of Netflix with the, admittedly handsome but utterly vapid, Dick, and once Dick’s hand lays itself over Louis’ thigh and Colin doesn’t object, Louis realises exactly what kind of hang-out this is.

He pulls Colin aside.

“What the fuck is this?” he hisses in the kitchen, making sure it’s low enough that Stranger McGropeyhands doesn’t hear, “Netflix and chill?”

“Well...” Colin glances over at the blonde head of hair and then back at Louis, “technically yes, I suppose. We’re chilling. We’re watching Netflix. So, I mean—”

“Oh, cut it out,” Louis scoffs, “what, you want us to fuck him or something?”

To his surprise, although it shouldn’t really be at this point, Colin shrugs a shoulder at that. “Do _you_ want us to fuck him?”

“I—” Louis glances over at the bloke just as he stretches, bulging biceps and a deep guttural groan, “well, fuck— I don’t even know him. What if he has herpes?”

“He doesn’t have herpes,” Colin chuckles, “and besides, isn’t it better if we don’t know the bloke that well? Avoid any sort of… inconvenient stuff?”

Feelings. He means feelings, like _the ones you still can’t shake for Harry_.

Louis sighs, crossing his arms over his chest and checking the back of the stranger’s head out again. “Could’ve warned me before bringing him home.”

“I know, darling, I’m sorry, but I was giving him a lift home and it was only during that I realised he was gay and I just—” Colin sighs, a self-deprecating sort of smile coming over his face, “I just know that you’re in need of something… more. I want you to have it. I knew you’d think he was hot. But, you know what, you’re right, this was a really ridiculous thing of me to do, I’ll go tell him to leave.”

He turns halfway around and then Louis grabs him by the arm. “I mean, wouldn’t that be sort of rude, though?” he asks, half-biting his lip, “now that he’s already here and everything?”

Colin grins.

 

*

 

They never make it up to the bedroom. As opposed to the Harry-thing, ground rules are laid down strictly beforehand. While Louis sucks on his dick, Dick tells them he’s done threesomes before, but always with beta’s or other alpha’s and he can’t share an omega because his possessive nature gets too riled up by the scent. So, Colin sits back in the loungechair and watches Louis get pounded doggystyle on the livingroom floor. Despite being very wary of his own boundaries, Dickhead completely disregards Louis’ loud demands for him to pull out and ends up knotting him, the fucking arsehole.

In turn, Louis spends the entire time they’re tied cursing his ear off and, once he’s finally able to pull out, Dickhead makes a run for the door and never even kisses them goodbye, thank fuck.

“Well,” Louis says, as he and Colin drag themselves up the stairs afterwards, “he certainly lived up to his name.”

“You should probably take the morning after stuff,” Colin says, “and I’m sorry, it seems alpha’s have issues controlling themselves at times, huh?”

Louis makes eyes at him. “Oh, really?”

Colin drops his head, chuckling. “Anyway, it was good, though, wasn’t it? Until then?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, because it’s the truth. He’s sore as hell and he’s got rugburn on his knees and elbows, bruises and scratches all over, but he liked it, a lot. It wasn’t what it was with Harry, but it was good, it was rough and hard and Dick knew how to use his dick, so. “Yeah, how about you? You looked—”

“Yeah,” Colin grins coyly, “well, you know, darling, as long as you’re happy, I’m happy.”

“Oh, shut up, I saw you jerking off to the look of him, don’t act all holy.”

Colin laughs at himself, laying back on the bed. “Well, it _is_ hot to see you get fucked by such a beast, you know I think so,” he says, “but to be honest, I’m just happy you wanted to and you liked it. I think it’s nice that we can do this sort of thing once in a while, sort of get it out of your system. Also, I’m glad to know it wasn’t just a Harry-thing you had, but more of a— physical need that could be sated by any alpha,” he says, “cause, like, now that you’ve had it from another alpha, I’m sure you’re realising that anything you felt for Harry was really just about getting a rough round from a proper alpha once in a while, yeah?”

Louis blinks. “Yeah,” he rasps, then clears his throat, “no, yeah, you’re right.”

 

*

 

Things still a bit for the next week. Louis has, as Colin puts it, _gotten it fucked out of your system, love_ , and they both bury their noses back in work. Louis’ editor is on him about Liam’s fucking sexlife again, because he didn’t get enough out of him last and he was hoping he’d get away with it, but it isn’t so, so—

So, here he is, again, walking to the lad’s flat. He hasn’t been by the flat since the morning he met Harry and Kendall near-naked in the kitchen, and he hopes to god they aren’t here anymore as he rings the doorbell. They can’t possibly still be shacked up in that tiny loftroom, he tells himself, surely, they’ve rented a hotelsuite or pumped up an air-mattress in that much-too-large-for-one-little-person house that Harry bought years ago, but never bothered to furnish.

It’s Kendall who picks up the doorphone. Fuck his life.

She buzzes him up and he contemplates sprinting down the street and never, ever seeing any of his friends ever again, but he hates exercising so he walks inside instead.

“Hi, Louis,” Kendall says, still standing in the hall when he comes up. There’s a hum of conversation in the next room, barks of Niall-laughter and grumbles from Liam, sweet giggles from Viv. At least he isn’t alone with her this time, then. “Oh my god, by the way, I am so sorry, I’ve been calling you Lewis,” Kendall rambles, “it was like, not on purpose at _all_ , I’m literally so—”

“Lewis Tomlinslut, is that you out there?” Niall shouts from the livingroom.

Kendall frowns confusedly and Louis chuckles awkwardly. “It’s just Nigel being a prick,” he non-explains and then flees into the livingroom.

Liam and Viv are lying on the carpet on their stomachs, playing cards, Zayn and Perrie are spooning on the middle-couch, Harry’s lying back on the side-couch in a way that suggests he had Kendall between his legs before she went to answer the door, and Niall is eating a family-sized pizza on his own.

“Well, now I feel bad for being single, seeing the lot of ya,” Louis says, hands on his hips.

“Aren’t you married?” Kendall asks, walking up behind him.

“Yeah, I, I was just— joke, I was joking. Sarcasm.”

“Oh.” She laughs. Then she walks across Liam and Viv and splays herself out on top of Harry.

“Mate!” Niall yells, forcing Louis not to stare at them until the bitter acid in his stomach eats it up entirely, “fuckin’ hell, it’s good to see you! Give us a cuddle, I’m feeling lonely over here!”

So, Louis ends up being spooned by Niall and pizza, which are the two nicest things ever, but he’s facing Harry and Kendall, which, combined, is the one worst thing ever. He’s lying long as he is, head rested back on one armrest, and she’s lying between his legs, head rested back on his chest. His strong arms fold around her middle and her long slim fingers dance absently up and down his tattoo’s as they watch whatever’s on the telly. They aren’t even bad. She never once turns around and kisses him and he never once drops so much as a peck to her hair, whilst Zayn and Perrie are pretty much dryhumping on the middle-couch, but it’s still terrible. It’s still too much to have to watch.

“Liam,” Louis says at some point, when he realises he actually came here for a reason, “mate, I’ve gotta talk to you. For the book.”

Liam, who’d just walked Viv out, and looks as though Louis could stack ten books on his hunchback without having them sway, sighs, “that’ll have to be another day,” he says, “I’ve been working all night, I’m going to bed now.”

“Okay.”

Liam nods, then smiles tiredly. “But it’s good to see you again, Lou. I hate it when we don’t see you for weeks.”

And— somehow, combined with Niall squeezing him a bit closer, that was exactly what he needed right then. “Thanks, mate,” Louis says, “I’ll try to come around more. Sleep well.”

“Oh, I will.”

Liam trots off to bed and Louis shifts around to face the telly again, which inconveniently also means facing Harry and Kendall again. He can’t help but look. He has to. And, it looks innocent enough, at first glance, but Louis keeps glancing until he’s just flat-out studying them and fuck, it’s not innocent at all. He’s drawling, slow and lazy into her ear, low enough that Louis can’t make out the words, but he doesn’t have to in order to know that it’s something filthy; he’s slipped one of his long fingers sideways in her thin white tanktop, ever so subtly darting it around her nipple.

Oh, he can’t watch this.

“I’ve gotta piss,” he announces, and then jumps up faster than he can manage to disentangle his legs from Niall’s. He falls over, knocking his head on the coffee-table. “Fuck,” he hisses, but it isn’t too bad and he quickly scrambles himself up to stand, “I’ve gotta piss,” he repeats, to the whole group, “I’m, eh— so. Yeah.”

He spins on his heel and hurries out of the hall, just hearing the befuddled laughs before he smacks the bathroom-door closed behind himself.

He’s only been standing there for about thirty seconds, gripping the sink, staring at his flushed face in the mirror, when the door gets opened.

Harry marches right in, almost soundless, but fast, locking the door behind him.

“Leave,” Louis says, after clearing his throat violently, “I’m pissing.”

“I can see that.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Louis hisses, “get the fuck out.”

Harry doesn’t oblige, nor reply at all. He studies Louis’ face in the mirror, licking over his teeth. “Are you all right?” is what comes out, after several tense seconds.

“What do you mean?”

“What I asked.” Harry tilts his head, sighing as his features soften a bit, frown deepening, more concerned than frustrated, “are you all right, Lou?”

And, right, Louis gets it. Right. “No,” he says, childish and stubborn, “I won’t indulge you in your little, like— fake ‘I wanna take care of you’-act. It’s fake and it doesn’t really mean you care and I don’t— I, no.”

Harry flinches, caught out. Then, so sudden Louis doesn’t have a chance to turn or tell him no, he’s erased the space between them and put his hands on Louis’ hips.

“Fuck—”

“Wait,” Harry says, pressing his nose into the nape of Louis’ neck, and Louis shudders, the smell of him so close, the feel of his strong hands grabbing him again, the puff of his hot breath against the nape of Louis’ neck, it’s so good he just lets it all happen. “ _Fuck_ ,” Harry hisses, after taking in a deep whiff of Louis through his nostrils, “fuck, what the _fuck_.”

“What?” Louis breathes out raggedly.

“You—” his hands tighten up on Louis, dig into the flesh of his hips and he bites his tongue over a wince, “what the fuck?”

Louis snaps his gaze up to look at him. His brows are furrowed still, but it’s definitely not just concern. It’s not even frustration. It’s full-on anger, the kind Louis only ever remembers seeing the day he bit Colin’s shoulder. The possessive kind. “What is it? Harry.”

“You smell like someone else,” he says, voice full of disgust, disbelief, “not Colin, it’s— it’s alpha, it’s not me, you—” and, oh. _Oh_. “Oh my fu— have you been knotted by someone else?”

Lost in the fog of Harry’s scent, Louis disregards the fact that Harry has no fucking right to be angry about this, ducking his head and saying; “yeah. We had a one-time thing with another guy after—”

“ _What_?” Harry exclaims, louder than it looks like he meant to. “What the fuck?” he hisses, lower, but just as angry, “you’ve, you— no. No no no…”

“Harry—”

“No no no,” Harry whimpers, desperate suddenly, and starts to lick up and down Louis’ neck and shoulders, “why would you let some random cunt knot you, I don’t understand, you smell like fucking shit, fuck, no no no...”

He bites down on Louis’ shoulder and the sharp pain jerks some sanity back into him. “Wait— no. Stop.” He wrestles out of Harry’s arms, stumbling toward the door, “you’ve got your fucking girl out there, you—”

He trails off when he turns before opening the door, finding Harry leaning back against the sink, face buried in his hands. He’s breathing heavily into them, entire body puffing up and shrinking down and puffing up again, all so fast he looks as though he’s hyperventilating. He isn’t telling Louis not to leave or reaching out for him, he’s trying to control himself. He’s fighting to deny himself.

“I’m sorry, I know it’s hard, Haz,” Louis sighs, softening up because he can’t help it, “it’s, I— well. I know it’s hard.”

Harry doesn’t move his head out of his hands and Louis senses it best if he doesn’t come any closer again, so he leaves the room, careful to close the door behind him.

Back in the livingroom, everything looks like it did when he left. He cuddles back up to a warm, soft Niall and, when Harry comes back in a few minutes later, he almost looks like nothing ever happened out there. Almost. He doesn’t look at Louis once for the rest of the two hours Louis sticks around, just lets Kendall lie on his chest and stares apathetically at the telly, not uttering a single word to anyone.

When Louis decides to call it a day, he doesn’t look up, nor say goodbye.

The rest do, even Kendall, and Louis manages to act somewhat normal, polite even, but he drops the fake smile with a sigh of relief soon as he reaches the hall. Thank fuck for all his mates being too lazy and rude to ever show anyone out.

He’s toeing on his shoes when Harry, for the second time, follows him into the room.

“What?” Louis sighs, turning round with one shoe half-on.

Harry leans back against the door, closing it with a low click. His brows are knitted together, mouth in a flat line, nostrils wide, but his eyes look big, young, anguished.

In one smooth move, he strides across the floor and presses Louis up against the wall.

He puts his soft mouth to Louis’, tongue darting right in, and grips at Louis’ arms, holds him in place when he gives a small whine at the shock of it. Harry’s chest presses up against his own, warm and wide and familiar, his heart beating even faster than Louis’ own, and Louis’ body gives in before his mind knows what it wants, pliant in Harry’s strong arms.

They move fast, without speaking, without even really thinking. Harry unzips Louis’ jeans and gets them down and off one leg, hands frantic with impatience, then pushes his own jeans down his arse, big hard dick flopping out. He grabs Louis under the thighs, hauls him right off the floor and steadies him up against the wall.

“Oh,” Louis gasps, dizzied at the quick pace of things, and then “oh  _god_ ,” when Harry shoves up into him with a grunt that he buries in the crook of Louis’ neck.

He tightens his arms around Harry, clutching onto him as he starts to fuck in quick little thrusts that have them huffing quietly into each other’s shoulders. He catches a glimpse of himself in the long mirror that hangs across from them, of Harry’s jeans halfway down his arse as it clenches and unclenches, his head pressed up against the wall by Louis’ face, his strong back, muscles taut and showing through the fabric of his tight white t-shirt.

The door is right by the mirror, and he can hear the others, chatting and laughing in there. If someone comes out, if just one person has to pee or look for Harry, then they’re fucked. They’re utterly fucked.

Just then, Harry seizes up, hunches and goes rigid, entire body vibrating as he fights not to make noise. His knot isn’t in Louis then, he’s pulled it out before he came, but his entire load is, and Louis realises then what this is; this is Harry making sure Louis smells like him and not some other alpha.

Louis hasn’t come when Harry pulls out and puts him back down, isn’t even sure he was close. 

Harry makes no move to finish him off and Louis doesn’t ask him to. He leans back against the wall beside Louis, zipping and buckling up his trousers again, while Louis scrambles to pull his pant-leg back up on shaky fingers.

“Harry!” Kendall calls from the other room, “bring my phone if you’re in the kitchen, would you?”

Harry clears his throat, then shouts out hoarsely, “yeah, sure!”

Then he wipes a hand over his sweaty forehead, throws it through his hair and waddles back toward the door without another word.

Louis watches his hunched back until he’s gone, then puts his other shoe on, wipes the tears that’ve accumulated in his waterlines and heads out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Btw, just wanted to say that I have nothing at all against real life Kendall Jenner, I hope it doesn't seem like that. I don't mind Hendall either, but in this particular fic, this is just what fits the story, I guess.
> 
> Ps. sorry if it seems like I reposted the same chapter to some of you, but I had to fix the date :)


	19. Chapter 19

A week has passed when Louis receives an odd text from Colin.

**Colin <3 - Why is Harry calling me asking about Dick ? **

At the moment, which is eleven am, Louis is sitting in bed still, enjoying a fry-up and the morning news. He mutes the telly immediately, then tries to call Colin up, but gets his voicemail. Not half a minute later, he receives another text.

**Colin <3 - Don’t call me Im in a meeting rn love**

Louis rides out the wave of panic washing through his body, then types out a text in response. **What do you mean Harrys calling you asking about cock?** and then **dick***

The only response he receives is **really**   **cant talk rn. meeting**.

He sits with that for a moment, clutching a spoonfull of scrambled eggs and baked beans between his teeth. Then he unlocks his phone again and calls up Harry. No response. He tries again, and again, and again. He throws him a text; **why** **does colin say u called him ??** , which he copy-pastes and sends again after five minutes of no response. It’s no use.

He tumbles out of bed and brings his dishes downstairs, puts on the kettle again and then pulls out a cigarette. He sits on the kitchen-counter, smoking out of the window, gaining himself a disgruntled look from an older lady walking past. He keeps looking at his phone, the empty display, no new messages, no incoming calls.

There’s an irritation rising inside of him, reaching up and settling beside the utter confusion and crippling anxiety. What the fuck does Harry do this for? What the fuck gives him the right?

There was a picture up of him and Kendall getting fro-yo online, just one day after Harry had fucked him in the hallway with all their friends and Harry’s fucking girlfriend right in the next room, forcing him to pick up yet another pack of morning after pills because he’d been off the damn birth control ever since Harry told him he wasn’t going to fuck him anymore. So. Harry’s a sociopathic fucking liar, or else he’s just got no slither of self-control in his body, but either way, he’s a huge fucking idiot.

So much so that Louis’ temper gets the better of him and he unlocks his phone, types out another message;

**You’ve no fucking right to be calling my husband asking about my sexlife. You’ve got a fucking girlfriend u entitled piece of silk. U said u dont want nothing to do with me anymore u dont get to randomly fuck me and go round asking bout who I fuck**

**shit***

He flicks off the screen again, taps his smoke off out of the window and has another long drag, steadying himself. He’s just managed to, somewhat, and is blowing smoke out towards a stray cat, as one does, when a car comes driving at just-over-the-limit-looking speed, swings up the curb, tires screeching and scaring the cat way.

Louis’ cigarette falls from his fingers; It’s Harry’s car.

Not three seconds pass before Harry’s slamming open the front door and jumping out, hair a wild mess around his face, buttondown only halfway buttoned up -  for once not looking intentional - and no coat on. He jumps the fence when he can’t wrestle open the lock, too impatient, and marches up the garden path, hair blowing into his eyes, pack of gum dropping out of his jean-pocket, never receiving so much as a glance back in its direction.

“What the fuck,” Louis mutters to himself, sliding around on the counter.

Before he’s even had a chance to jump off it, the front door gets knocked, and then slammed right open.

“Harry?” Louis calls out, hearing footsteps trampling into the hall and scolding Colin for never bothering to lock the goddamned front door. _Oh, but darling, it’s only when you’re home anyway, what’s the problem?_

“Louis?”

This. This is the problem. People walking straight into his home when he’s sitting on his kitchen-counter in nothing but yesterday’s briefs and rumpled sleep-hair.

“What the fuck are you doing, you can’t just barge into me house like that, you—”

“From the looks of things, that’s exactly what I can,” Harry barks right through, turning to close the door behind himself when Louis comes out into the hall and clutches his bare stomach, goosebumps running up his arms, “why the fuck wouldn’t you lock your front door?”

“Well, it’s not me forgetting to, is it?” Louis hisses, momentarily setting aside the fact that he’s currently conversing with a fucking _trespasser_ , “it’s bloody Colin when he goes to work and I’m up there asleep, he doesn’t lock it, does he?”

Harry finally figures out how to lock the door chain properly, hands too big and jittery to get it right on the first or second or even third try, and turns around again. His brows are arched up high, eyes wide with incredulity and… something else. Worry, Louis thinks. “Tell him he needs to start doing that,” Harry says sharply, “not locking the front door while you’re asleep up there, that’s like a fucking invitation for an alpha to run up and rape you. I can’t fucking believe him, why doesn’t he take fucking care of you, he’s your fucking _husband_ , it’s his job to make sure you’re all right,” he rants.  

“It’s _my_ job to make sure I’m all right,” Louis corrects, tightening his arms over his chest and scouting the room for something to cover himself with. Why he should, he isn’t sure. Harry’s the one barging in here uninvited, Louis should just tell him to leave. “What are you doing here?”

Harry lets out a sharp breath, chest falling, eyes moving up to meet Louis’. “I spoke to Colin.”

“I know you did.”

He nods, teeth scraping over his bottom lip as his nostrils flare out a bit. “I had to know,” he says, quieter, “I haven’t slept since you told me. I just needed to know who he was. I can’t stand it, it’s driving me bloody insane, it’s like— it’s like it’s crawled under my skin, it’s like it’s burning, I can’t stand it.”

Louis presses his lips together, taking a long second to pretend that he’s processing the words and not just fighting to school his own features. “That’s really not my problem, Harry. Don’t you think that it’s—” he cuts his gaze away so as not to let Harry see exactly how much it affects him, “it’s tough for me to see you with her? Of course it is. But I’m coping with it. I am.”

“I don’t— I’m… that’s not what I came here for,” Harry says, and Louis looks back up at him, swallowing, “I came here to see that you’re all right. I’ve been by Colin’s work and now I just had to—”

Wait. Louis holds a hand up. “You’ve been _where_?”

“Colin’s work.”

“How the fuck do you know where—”

“Facebook.”

Louis bristles. “You _fucking_ —”

“I didn’t break up a meeting or anything, in fact, they’d just come out of one five minutes before,” Harry explains, as if that makes any of it all right, “he told me something over the phone, I had to— I just had to have a word, okay? But that’s not why I’m here, I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“Why wouldn’t I be all right?” Louis asks, and when he realises Harry isn’t going to be able to process a word he says before he makes it abundantly clear, he adds on; “of course I’m all right.”  

Harry’s shoulders drop notably. “Good,” he says, “good, can I,” he begins to move closer, slow timid steps. “Just hug you or…”

“No,” Louis exclaims, backing himself up into the wall, “no, what the fuck do you think this is? Who the fuck do you think I am, you can’t just come here and fucking—”  

And of course, that’s the moment Louis’ phone goes off in the kitchen. He turns, just for a split-second, and then Harry’s close again, crowding around him, getting him delirious with scent. The phone’s still ringing in the other room and Harry’s just fucking barged into his home after not having spoken to him since fucking him randomly in the hall and Louis is a married fucking man and that could be his husband calling, he—

“No,” he says, pushing Harry off just before he can bury his nose in Louis’ neck. He knows where this leads. Nowhere. Nowhere at all. “No, you have to leave. You have to fuck off now, Haz, you have to leave. Please, you—”

When Harry backs up with a small whimper, Louis turns and sprints back to the kitchen.

He picks the phone up just in time. “‘ello?”

“Louis?”

The front door closes.

“Yeah, I… hhh… yeah? What’s going on, darling?”   

Louis looks out of the window and sees Harry walking back down the gardenpath, stepping on his gumpacket without noticing and ripping a hand much too roughly through his poor hair.

He turns away from that. “Sorry, what was that?” he asks, realising Colin’s been talking on the other end.

“I said, I don’t fucking know what’s going on right now,” Colin replies, voice angered, out of character, “Harry’s just popped by the office.”

“I know.”

There’s a pause. “Are you with him?”

“No.”

“Well,” Colin says, “he called and interrogated me about you having been with another alpha and I— fuck, I thought I was just being polite, answering his questions, I didn’t really think at first, I didn’t realise how torn up he was about it.”

“And then he came by the office too?”

“Yeah,” Colin says, then pauses for a moment. “Well, I’d— I’d let it slip that you’d not exactly _asked_ for Dick to knot you, that night. Cause he kept asking and asking and asking, he couldn’t fathom the fact that you’d let him do that and so I just explained to him what had happened.”

Fuck. Louis drops forehead into his free hand. “Why the _fuck_ would you—”

“Well, I didn’t know he was going to go ballistic, did I?” Colin hisses. It sounds like he’s standing in the loo, maybe inside a stall, trying not to yell, “I told him about the knotting and then he hung right up on me. I tried calling him back, but it went straight to voicemail. I couldn’t do anything about it so I figured I’d give him a ring later and went into the meeting. But then we come out of there and I’m just chatting to a few blokes in the hall and, next minute, Harry comes thundering out of the lift, yelling at me.”

“Shit,” Louis snaps his head up, glacing up and out through the window again. Harry’s car is gone by now. “Fuck, what’d he do?”

“Well, for starters, he pulled me into my office and grilled me about the entire situation again. Then he fucking slapped me across the face.”

“What?”

“He slapped me. Across. The face,” Colin says again, slower, emphasizing just how incomprehensible that is, “was livid that I’d brought you into a situation like that to begin with, is what I got from it.”

“God.”

“Yeah,” Colin laughs bitterly, “yeah, I’m just glad no one saw it happen. They’d have definitely lost all respect for me then, getting slapped by another bloke and not slapping back at all.”

Right. Louis stifles the urge to remind him of a night not too long ago, where he himself got a little whack across the cheek and never said anything to it. “And then he left,” he says instead, “then he left, right?”

Colin laughs again, that same humourless little huff. “Nope,” he says, “shouted at me till I told him where Dick’s office was, then marched down the hall, barged in there and punched him in the nose.”

“What?” Louis exclaims, stilling completely, “he did _what_?”

“He punched Dick in the nose,” Colin repeats, “was bleeding so badly he had to go the ER and everything. Might’ve broken it, I don’t know yet.”

“Shit,” Louis mutters around the nail that he’s chewing on, “fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Louis huffs, and thanks to the fact that they’re talking over the phone Colin doesn’t see the way the crooks of Louis’ mouth suddenly won’t seem to stay down. Punching is bad, he knows. But non-consensually knotting someone and not getting punched for it would be even worse.

 

*

 

When Colin comes home from work that evening, Louis is sitting at the dining-table, going through his e-mails. He’s just received a folder containing the photo’s from the shoot they did at the house. He clicks into the first one, is faced with himself, crammed between two fluffy lilac pillows, holding “Betty” in a way so that one won’t be able to see her dick and balls, and Colin on the side, grinning and petting her. He was always better at faking that sort of thing than Louis.

“Hiya,” Colin says, and Louis closes his laptop.

“Hey.” He turns in his chair, smiling expectantly up at Colin. What he sees is a relief. Whatever anger Louis detected over the phone earlier has dissolved by now, and Colin’s just smiling drowsily, sighing down into Louis’ hair and melting down around him. “Long day, huh?”

Colin chuckles. “You could say that.”

“Come sit down with me.” He feels as though he should get up and make tea, go heat the left-over’s of the fried rice and chicken he made for himself when he got too hungry to hold out on eating dinner, but he stays in his spot. He’s too nervous not to. “You all right?”

Colin’s slipped into the chair across from him and is smiling through his fingers now, chin rested in his hand. “My cheek’s kind of sore,” he says, shrugging a shoulder, and Louis opens his mouth because if that doesn’t call for a reminder of what Colin did to him two weeks ago, then Louis’ pretty certain he’s the queen of England, “Dick’s worse off, though,” Colin says, just before he gets to it, “texted me just now. His nose isn’t _broken_ broken, but it got a bit bent out of shape so the chiro had to crack it back in place.”

Louis swallows, straightening up. “Fuckin’ hell,” he says, quite eloquently.

“Yep,” Colin agrees.

“Have the police been involved or?”

“No, Harry left just as he’d hit him. Then Dick drove himself to the ER, so… Haven’t looked online, but I’m sure Dick’s going to sell the story. I mean, Harry Styles punching someone? That’s front page stuff.”

Right. Fuck. He hadn’t even thought about the media. “Do you think he’ll get in trouble? Badly? I don’t even know, what the like… consequences for punching someone are these days.”

“No, I don’t know either, really. Suppose it depends a bit on Dick’s next move.” Colin sighs. “Either way, he was good in the sense that he didn’t shout about it to the whole building. Got punched in his own office, I was the only one who saw - I mean, I didn’t see it happen, but when I walked in he was clutching his face and the blood was running and… yeah, Harry just shoved past me and left.”

Momentarily, Louis considers telling Colin that Harry came here after. But then, he hasn’t told Colin about the fuck in the hall a week ago either, so what’s the point of pretending to be a saintly little truth-teller now? He hooks his foot round Colin’s ankle. “I’m sorry he slapped you,” he says.

Colin shrugs. “Just a slap. Didn’t break anything. Tell you what, it hurt twice as bad when he fucked me the first time.”

“Right.” Louis coughs dryly. “But still, I’m sorry, he’s—”

“I know what he is,” Colin cuts through, looking him right in the eye, “I get his motivations. I mean, it isn’t something I’d have done, but I get why what happened today happened. It’s part of what he is. I’m sure if someone’d done something like that to his Kendall he’d have beaten the guy even worse.”

And— that hurts way more than it should. “Right,” Louis croaks, “right, yeah. Cause he’s just alpha, innit? It’s not cause he actually cares.”

“Exactly,” Colin nods, “it’s just one of those things. You can’t really do anything about it. If he weren’t alpha, he’d probably not have given a rat’s arse.” He shrugs again, then moves to get up, which is a good thing because that spares him from seeing the look on Louis’ face right then, “it is what it is. Let’s just hope he doesn’t get trashed too badly in the media.”

 

*

 

He doesn’t. No articles come out about it at all. And Louis should know; he checks every single site, every single hour of every single day for the next week. Nothing. It’s almost as if it never happened. Colin moves on from it swiftly, and says that Dick is back at work, doing the same.

 **How’d you manage not to get slammed in the media?** Louis texts Harry one evening, when he’s had three glasses of wine and Colin’s working late. It’s not as though they’ve spoken at all since any of it happened, but Louis realises after sending the text that he’s been drinking from the biggest wineglass in the house and perhaps, _perhaps_ he’s had four glasses rather than three.

He receives a response ten minutes later.

**herald - paid him off**

Oh. Right. Of course. Because rich people get away with everything. **Must’ve been expensive** , he texts back.

**herald - priciest punch i’ve ever thrown**

Louis snickers into his fifth glass of wine. God, he’s too drunk for sitting at home alone on a Tuesday. Oh, well.

While he drinks, another message ticks in.

**herald - I’d have done it still if I knew it would cost me a million quid, I dont care. He hurt you**

Louis stills mid-sip, staring at the message. He’s too intoxicated for his stomach to loop around or some ridiculous shit, but he’s not too intoxicated not to know what that message makes him feel.

He _is_ too intoxicated not to hold back on typing it down and sending it. **I miss you**

It’s as though it sobers him up, sends a jolt of reality through his entire body, once the phone tells him _seen 8.43pm_. He puts his glass down and devotes all his energy to staring at the display, waiting for the response. He shouldn’t have sent that. He shouldn’t have, because now, he’s either hurting himself something so terribly by finding out that Harry doesn’t really miss him back or he’s just hurting Harry by giving him false hope, which, well— would also hurt himself.

But, of course, he ends up getting no response at all.

He waits and he waits and he checks and he checks and he receives nothing what so ever. Well, except for one text, which makes his heart leap into his throat and then sink so fast he feels sick from it, seeing that it’s only Colin, telling him he’s not going to be home for another hour.

He receives nothing from Harry until he does.

It’s forty minutes after he got seenzoned and he’s standing in the kitchen, dizzily contemplating how to dispose of the empty wine-bottle without having to stumble down the street, but also not having to leave it here, where Colin will no doubt come home, see, and then give him that terrible look of concern that says _did you drink this all on your own? Oh, darling_.

It’s then that his phone buzzes. In one and the same move, he spins around and drops the wine-bottle. By some miracle, it doesn’t hit his feet, smashes on the floor beside them instead, and Louis rushes to the phone.

**herald - come outside**

He stands with that in hand for a moment, not comprehending. Then, slowly, his mind clears up a little and he turns around, walks through the kitchen and leans over the sink, looking out of the window. It’s pitch black out and the lights aren’t on, but Louis sees it, after a second of concentrating; Harry’s car parked out front.

He stands stiff for a minute, just staring at it, unsure of what to do. Part of him hopes Harry’ll just make it easy on him and drive off. Another part fears just that, so he snaps out of his daze and runs to the hall. He’s only wearing boxers and a thin white t-shirt so he grabs the first thing he sees and pulls it on. He tiptoes down the garden-path in naked legs and a bright yellow raincoat quite a few sizes too large.

When he reaches close enough, his steps falter, bare feet on the rain-damp gravelly pavement. Harry’s sitting in the driver’s seat, silhouette dark, but instantly familiar, skin so pale Louis can almost make out his expression. He sees Louis after a second, easily probably, considering the not-so-quiet coat he’s thrown on, eyes going wide and hands gesturing impatiently for Louis to get in the passenger-seat.

He obliges, for whatever reason, and Harry’s pushed open the door for him when he reaches round the car.

“Get in, you’re gonna get ill standing out there in nothing,” Harry says, leaning over the seat and looking up at him. His hair hangs free, sideswept and wavy as it frames his beautiful face, gets a bit in the way of it. When Louis bites his lip and scratches his icy thigh, Harry tucks his hair behind one ear and blinks up at him, looking so young, sweet, sorry, and says in the gentlest voice, “please, Lou.”

That, and rain the starting to tap his head, does it.

“What is it?” he asks as he slides into the seat and Harry reaches right over, closing the door for him.

Harry leans back in his own seat, eyes gliding from Louis and out into the darkened nothingness of his windshield. He lets out a trembling breath. “I just, uhm,” he starts, slow, undetermined, “I don’t know.”

Right. Louis studies him for a moment, as he rubs his palms up and down his own quivering cold thighs. His skin looks almost see-through tonight, under-eyes blueish, lips blood-red against white, and Louis wants to trace the pad of his finger along that perfect cupid's bow, but he doesn’t. He talks instead; “that’s not true, though, is it?” His voice feels tiny, raspy, so he clears his throat before speaks again; “Harry, you came here to say something. You did, I can see it on you.”

“Uhm.” Harry reaches out, rests a big hand on the steering wheel and taps his finger to the leather, fast and frantic, “I broke up with Kendall. Or, she broke up with me. Or, I, well… it ended. It was ending anyway.”

Oh. Louis swallows. “Anyway?”

“Well,” he shrugs a shoulder, smiles with the side of his mouth before it drops away again, “she, uhm, it— we don’t fit. We don’t fit, really. So. We never do. We just try because we, I— I guess it’s familiar. Easy. There’s never any animosity so we tend to forget what made us break apart, but then we always remember again. We always do.”

“Okay,” Louis says, letting out an unsteady breath with it, “how come you don’t fit?”

Harry’s hand tightens round the wheel, knees beginning to bop up and down. “Cause we’re not in love,” he says, toneless, gaze still trained on the windshield before him. “Neither of us. Never. No matter what we do, how hard we’ve tried, how close we’ve been to something resembling it, we just— aren’t.”

“She’s beautiful.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, “so is Niagara Falls, but I don’t want to keep fucking it for the rest of my life.”

“No? Heard she’s filthily wet at all times,” Louis deadpans.

Harry drops his chin, chuckling a little. It soon fades along with the momentary relief of tension.

Harry scrubs hand over his mouth. “I’ve only ever been in love once,” he says, slow, quiet, and he’d look entirely calm if his knees weren’t bopping again now, hand cramped white around the wheel, “never quite managed to shake it.”

“No?” Louis breathes, heart pounding at his ribcage, “when?”

Harry swallows, throat working down to his collarbones. “I was, like… eleven,” he says, and Louis’ breath hitches and Harry’s mouth twitches at the sound of it, “and I saw this kid at the park. I didn’t know him, but I just wanted to be close to him, that’s all I knew then. So I, like…” he smiles a bit at himself, gaze dropping to his lap, under-eyes damp when he lifts it again, “stole his skateboard so he’d talk to me.”

“Yeah?” Louis asks, legs shaking again even though he isn’t cold anymore, “did it work?”

“Mhm,” Harry says quietly, “we got close. Really close. It was never enough, never _ever_ enough, but I survived it at the time, cause— I was a kid and I didn’t even know anything. I didn’t even know I was alpha yet. I didn’t even know he was an omega until one day, I went to visit him and his mum told me he’d been sent on some sort of camp for omega’s in heat.” He takes his hand off the wheel, swipes his own cheeks, “when he came back, I’d made, like… a scrapbook of my summer and I wanted to show him so he didn’t feel like he’d missed out too badly, but— he was telling everybody about his new boyfriend. This cool older guy. So.”

“So,” Louis half-whispers.

“So,” Harry scrunches his nose over a sniffle, “so that was that. I couldn’t handle hearing it, knowing it, so— I found new friends, and then I found out I was alpha. Fucked a bunch of omega’s and joined a band and struck fame and fucked a lot more, even knotted a few, and, well… It really felt as though I was over it.”

He sighs, finally looking over at Louis, a sardonic little smile playing at his wet red lips. “But were you?” Louis asks.

“I thought so. I thought I could be a bit closer to him, I thought it wasn’t too bad, but I still wanted him all the time and it got worse the more I saw him. I convinced myself I could be like I was with everyone else,” Harry says, “just sort of… fucking and then not giving that much of a fuck afterwards. I tried, like… _really_ hard to be that version of myself with him,” he says, “and you know where it got me?”

“Where?” Louis asks, head tilted back, chest so tight he thinks he might die.

Harry shrugs a shoulder, shaking his head at himself. “Got me a million times worse off than I’d been the first time.”

“Right,” Louis croaks, wiping at the salty warm shit that’s climbed it’s way down his own cheeks. “That sounds shit.”

Harry laughs breathily down at his own lap. “M-hm. Really shit.”

They sit for a while, not saying anything, the only sounds filling the car the tap of the rain on the windshield and their own ragged breaths.

“I didn’t know,” Louis says, eventually, because it’s the truth and he doesn’t know what else to say to make it better. Well, there’s more he could say, a lot more, stuff that’d make Harry feel much less alone in it, but he can’t get the words past his lips, not when he’s sitting outside the house he owns with his husband, not when he’s got a whole life that he owes himself to. “I honestly had no idea.”

“I know,” Harry sniffles, “and I know I’m not getting anything out of telling you this now, I know it’s just… stupid and pointless, but I had to get it out before I left.”

Louis stills in his seat. “Left?”

“Yeah,” Harry sniffles again, looks at up him through clumpy wet lashes, “the lads and I are planning on ending the hiatus soon. They wanna tour the last album. So I’m going back to L.A. We’ll try and write a few new numbers and get them recorded beforehand to take with. And anyway, I’ve been in London for a while now. Need a change of scenery. I’m shit at staying round in one place for long anyway, innit?” he says, smiling in a way that makes Louis want to scream.

“No, you’re—”

“I just wanted to tell you,” Harry cuts through, voice firmer, eyes back on the windshield, “so you knew. But I, uhm... I knew before I did that it wasn’t going to get me anything. I just wanted you to know. So, uhm, now you do.” Suddenly, he turns his head and looks at Louis again, “you’re never going to leave him, are you?”

Louis’ jaw goes slack, and he just stares back at Harry, unable to form a response.

“Right,” Harry says after a beat, answered by the lack of one, and looks away again, “right. So, uhm, you should get out now. I’ve got no more left to, like… give off of. Now.”

“No, but you don’t get it, he’s my _entire_ life. He’s been that since I was fifteen, he’s my home, my career, he’s my family, I can’t just—”

“Yeah,” Harry says sharply, expression anything but, “so you should get out now,” he says, not looking at Louis once, jaw set firmly, twitching just a bit, “now, Louis. Please.”

“But—”

He jerks sideways, reaches across and opens the passenger door, then sits back with a shaky breath. “Please.”

“Harry—”

“Please,” Harry sobs, turning his head away from Louis, “please, you’re never going to leave him, so don’t make this hurt more than it already does.”

“I—” But Harry’s right. He’s hurting himself, not that he gives a fuck about that, but he’s hurting Harry too. He needs to stop being so fucking selfish because Harry is right, he can’t leave, he can’t leave his entire life for something he isn’t even sure what is, he can’t.

He gets out of the car, stumbles bare-legged around it and forces himself not to turn and watch it drive away.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song suggestions (or at least songs that I listened to writing this chap). 
> 
> Broken Strings - James Morrison 
> 
> Two Ghosts - ;) 
> 
> Let It Go - James Bay
> 
>  
> 
> Also, quick chapter warning: If you're sensitive about violence, you might want to watch out. (it's not too bad, imo, but you know).

When he comes back inside, he doesn’t know what to do with himself. There’s a ball of anxious energy in his stomach, a bit of sick coming up his throat, all the sort of stuff that lets him know he’ll be hit with the reality of what’s just happened in an hour, maybe two, maybe not before the morning, and it’ll hit like a fucking depression-train, thousand miles per hour, right towards his skull.

So he goes straight up to bed, not because he’s at all tired, not because he doesn’t know he’ll just be staring at the ceiling for four hours straight, but because if there’s one thing he knows better than any of all that it’s that he can’t fake a smile and act as though everything’s all right when Colin comes home in five minutes. He just won’t be able to, not tonight.

Harry was in love with him. Back when they were kids. Back when Louis only thought of him as this curly haired, dimple-faced little _child_ , back when Louis did things like spoon him during sleep-overs, dig his fingers into his hair any chance he got, kiss his fucking chin after he fell on Louis’ skateboard and scraped it. God, he did so many evil things that he didn’t even know were evil back then. God, he talked so fucking much about Colin, in explicit fucking detail because he was so fucking proud that an older guy wanted to suck his fifteen-year-old cock, god, he didn’t make it easy on Harry.

God, he hates that. He really hates that.

These last many years Louis had just figured that Harry was too cool for him, not in any horrible way, but rather just realistically, because he was. Too pretty, too charming, too able to turn anything he touched into gold without even trying, too exciting to be with someone who lead as relatively boring a life as Louis. Louis was never ashamed of his life, still isn’t, but he never doubted the fact that, to someone with a life as fast-paced and exhilarating as Harry’s, nothing about it looked remotely enticing.

He still doesn’t quite understand what it is about himself that ‘got Harry a million times worse off than he was the first time’. Really, what does he have to offer? Telly, sleep-ins, self-conscious sarcasm, take-away dinner’s and the odd walk around the neighborhood with a now non-existent dog?

Then again, he thinks to himself, Harry’s lifestyle doesn’t exactly offer the sense of stability that Louis craves, and yet here he lies, unable to stop thinking about how much he wishes Harry was lying beside him.

The bedroom door creaks open.

Louis closes his eyes.

“Louis?” Colin asks quietly, and Louis fights to make his breathing sound less like he’s hyperventilating and more like he’s been asleep for an hour. Colin comes up to the side of him. “Lou?”

There’s a terrible dragged-out moment where Louis is almost a hundred percent certain that Colin’s going to call him on his act, but then he doesn’t. Then he just sighs and leaves Louis to it.

 

*

 

In the morning, he wakes like he feared, and knew, that he would. To one fraction of a second’s utter oblivious bliss, before everything comes crashing down on him. Harry loves him. He loves Harry. He can’t have Harry, because he has Colin and he loves Colin too, never ever won’t, and he can’t have them both because that’s just not how it works. Not for them, anyway. They’ve tried that, they’ve failed at that, and now they’ve ended in exactly the place that any person who decides to open up their marriage fears.

He’s in love with Harry. Harry’s going back on tour and Louis’ husband is right in the next room and Louis is lying in their bed, fighting back tears.

He hasn’t managed, pillow damp under his cheek when Colin comes out of the bathroom. He sniffles and considers making up a lie about going into early heat and therefore being stupidly over-emotional, but Colin speaks before he manages to muster up half a voice; “why was there a smashed wine-bottle left on the kitchen-floor when I came home last night?”

And— oh. Fuck. He’d completely forgotten to— “I, ehm, oh, I… shit, I meant to clean that up, but I just… I just forgot to,” Louis rambles, stopping to clear his throat more than once, “think I might be going into heat soon, my mind is all over the place.”

Colin nods slowly, eyes narrowed. “Did you drink all that by yourself?”

“No,” Louis says, sniffling hard, hoping it sounds more like a bit of a cold than from having sobbed over someone else, “no no, course not, I hadn’t opened it, I was just moving the bottle as I, ehm, cleaned the surfaces and then, you know how clumsy I am. Next thing, it was smashed on the floor. All over the place.”

“Ah,” Colin says, toneless, “good thing you didn’t cut up your feet.”

“Yeah, I—” Louis coughs, uncomfortable under Colin’s unreadable gaze, “yeah, really good. Very lucky.”

“Hm.”

He turns and begins to dress himself. Louis watches, tongue between his teeth, feeling as though there’s still something unsaid, hanging in the air between them. Something that needs to be said by himself.

“Sorry.”

Colin stills for a second, then begins moving again, slowly, calmly, but not like normal, a bit like he knows he’s being watched. “Sorry for what, darling?” he asks faux-breezily.

“For like— I should’ve cleaned that up. I didn’t meant to just leave it there like that, for you to come home to.”

He stops, hoping for Colin to say something, anything to ease this terrible tension.

After a minute, he does. “It’s all right, love, only took me a minute to clean up,” he says, turning as he starts to button his work-shirt, “all I had to do was sweep up the glass and bin it. Didn’t even have to wipe the floors at all,” he says, and smiles in a way that has Louis smiling back nervously, feeling as though he’s missed something. “Funny that,” Colin adds after a second, and Louis’ stomach jumps, “considering you hadn’t even opened the bottle.”

“Wha’?” Louis croaks.

“Nothing,” Colin shrugs a shoulder, smiles without the eyes again, “just funny, is all. That you say you hadn’t had any wine at all and yet you smash the bottle on the floor and no wine comes out.”

Louis’ face falls, realization finally dawning on him. Fuck.

“And then I think,” Colin goes on in the same light, unsettling tone, “well, did you then wipe up all the wine and leave the glass for me to find? Which would be the only explanation, considering you say you hadn’t emptied the bottle beforehand. Because you wouldn’t lie to me, I know you wouldn’t. Not after we’ve spoken about this several times. But then, I think, that would be quite a weird thing to do, wouldn’t it? Leaving the glass, but swiping the wine away. So,” Colin does up the last button, and widens his smile, “my conclusion would be that, since you respect me too much to lie to me after all the talks we’ve had, a desperate penniless alcoholic must’ve broken into our house just before I came home, swiftly lapped up all the wine, and then escaped without a trace, leaving the glass for me to find. It’s the only possible explanation. Isn’t it, love?”

Louis swallows thickly. “Colin—”

“Save it,” Colin says, all breeziness gone, voice sharp, angry, “just fucking— save it.”

He leaves with that, slamming the bedroom door behind him. Louis jerks up in the sheets, screaming at the top of his lunges as his stupid eyes brim over again, stomach so twisted up with guilt he almost pukes from it,  “Colin, I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

But he gets no response, not even so much as a _fuck you_ , which would’ve been better than nothing because then at least they’d be talking, in a way. By the time he’s untangled his legs from the sheets and made it down the hall, the front door slams closed. Fuck. _Fuck_.

 

*

 

When Colin comes home, Louis has cooked up dinner. He’s wearing trousers and a fresh-ironed blue buttondown, has fixed his hair all right and put on socks today. The aesthetic that he’s going for is _I didn’t spend all day up until an hour ago in bed, heartbroken over a man who’s probably halfway across the Atlantic right now and most definitely not you_. He thinks he pulls it off, judging by the way Colin’ gaze glides up and down him, pleased. It’s his initial reaction, just his eyes liking what they see, and it’s soon cancelled out by the same tired expression he’s sported far too often lately. He hasn’t forgotten over this morning, not at all. Fuck, it’s probably ruined his entire day at work.

“How was your day?” Louis asks, overdoing the sweet voice he puts on, but not quite as badly as the smile he forces over his lips, like a beta-sized condom over an alpha-sized dick, tight and uncomfortable.

“Fine,” Colin says, leaning back against the kitchen counter, staring at Louis’ back while he serves up their food, “yours?”

“Yeah, thanks, it—”

“Hang out with Harry or...?”

Louis stills, dropping a big gunk of scalloped potatoes and ham onto the counter, “ _no_ ,” he exclaims belatedly, “no, he’s not—”

“Drink a big bottle of wine on your own to pass the time, then?”  

Louis sighs. “Colin—”

“No, it’s fine, I’m sorry, it’s fine, it’s just me being bitter,” Colin rattles through, shoulder-shoving Louis aside as he steps in and takes their plates for them. “Get the cutlery, would you, love?” he says saccharinely as he makes his way out of the room.

Louis does, along with a liter of milk and two glasses. They usually have a glass of wine with dinner, but for some odd reason there’s no wine left in the house.

They eat in front of the telly, not talking. Louis tries to initiate a bit of conversation, just to ease the mood a bit, just to feel less like the only thing that’s keeping them from arguing again is the telly, but everything falls flat. Colin doesn’t want to talk.

There’s an add on the telly, with a guy that has long dark hair and tattoo’s, wears the same white t-shirt and skinny jeans as Harry. Louis never paid much attention to him before, but now, now that he misses Harry so much it physically hurts, the look of the guy, the one second of _hey, is that Harry?_ before he realises it isn’t, it has his heart doing all sorts of terrible flips-flops inside his chest.

When he calms himself down a bit, he realises Colin’s watching him, eyes on the side of his face. “Looked a bit like Harry, that bloke, huh?”

Louis scrapes at his plate even though there’s virtually nothing left to work with, then lifts one fork-tine’s worth of potato-cream up to his mouth. “I suppose so,” he mutters.

“Hm,” Colin says, “do you miss him?”

“No.”

“Sure?”

Louis drops his plate and looks at him. “Yes,” he insists, raising his brows to underline his lie, “yes, I’m bloody sure I don’t miss him. I’m married to _you_ , and yes, there’s been a bit of stupid shit going on lately, but it’s honestly— it’s honestly done with. It _is_ , Colin.”

Colin studies him, eyes firm, and Louis lets him, keeping a straight face. Eventually, it works, Colin’s features softening up, a hint of a smile showing on his lips. “Okay,” he says, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I just— I just don’t know where your head’s at, right now. I just feel like you’re feeling a lot of things that you’re not sharing with me. And then you give me these, these little lies. These stupid pointless little lies like the wine - as if I’d get genuinely angry with you over a bottle of wine? We never used to lie like that. Not even about the little things.”

Louis nods, swallowing hard. “I know, I— fuck, I’m sorry about that. I just… was too tired to bother talking about it, I think. I don’t know. I don’t know, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, I know what you mean.”

“Okay. Okay. Okay.” Colin turns back to the telly, nodding again, and again, “okay,” he says, “we’re okay.”

“We’re okay, yeah,” Louis tells him, but feels so bad about all of this that he ends up continuing with, “you asked, just earlier, whether I’d hung out with Harry today,” and Colin turns to look at him, expecting to be hurt with yet another lie, “I didn’t. You, ehm— you don’t have to worry about that anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s gone back to L.A.,” Louis says, coughing as his throat starts to close up on him, talking about this, “he’s not going to be around anymore. He’s, ehm— they’re, the lads and him, from the band, they’re going back on tour soon. So, ehm. Yeah. He’s gone back there. To L.A.”

“Oh.”

“Yep,” Louis mutters, putting his plate down on the coffee-table and then busying himself with scratching at the hem of his jeans, “it, ehm— I think that’s good, don’t you? That we, like, that he isn’t… around us anymore.”

Colin, who’s been watching the side of his face again, so intently his skin’s begun to prickle, finally moves his gaze back to the telly, “yeah,” he breathes, “yeah, definitely.”

Louis takes a second to make sure the lump that’s crawled up his throat isn’t designed to make him break down crying soon as he tries to speak again, and then says; “I think I’m no good for that, anyway. Being with more than one person at once. I think I’m not— I can’t do it. I don’t function in it, I think.”

“Hm,” Colin says, from where he’s now absently sucking at the nail of his pointerfinger, “right,” he says, “right, you can’t do it, then? The open thing? You’ve come to that conclusion now, is what you’re saying?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, slapping his own thigh as if in conclusion, “reckon I’m just wired for monogamy, to be honest.”

“Right. Yeah, me too,” Colin agrees, so easily it’s almost unnerving.

 

*

 

That evening, Louis initiates sex. Whether it be because he feels guilty or because he feels lonely despite lying right next to someone, he isn’t sure, but within five minutes, he’s regretting it. The smell, the skin, the touch, the cock, it’s all wrong, it’s all so simply _not Harry_ , and it’s too soon when the memory of having Harry fuck him’s still so vivid he can almost taste it.

Colin’s being gentle, sweet and attentive and loving, softly asking Louis to look him in the eye more than once. When, at some point, Louis looks directly up into his eyes and whatever he’s feeling inside is so obvious it’s pathetic, Colin speeds up his thrusts, gives it to him harder, hard as it ever gets with him.

And yet it isn’t hard enough. Never enough. “Fuck,” Louis hisses, thighs dripping with sweat, quaking as they squeeze around Colin’s waist, fingernails digging into the heels of his own hands, just above where Colin’s holding his wrists down, “fuck, come on, you— you, _ungh_ —”

“What?” Colin pants, eyes dark, jaw set hard, “what, I’ll, what, d’you want anything, I can—”

“Hit me again.”

Colin’s face slackens, thrusts falling out of rhythm. His brows draw closer.

“Please,” Louis breathes, because he needs to feel something, even if it hurts, he needs to be punished for needing so much more than Colin ever signed up to give, “please, you—”

 _Smack._  His face jerks sideways into the pillow, cheek stinging from the hard hit. Colin’s panting down at him when he looks up again, breath hot, sharp against his face. Louis nods, swallowing thickly.

“Yeah?” Colin asks. “Is that what you want?”

“Yeah, I—”

He’s smacked silent again, over the other cheek, harder this time. Both his cheeks burn, and he turns his face back up and looks Colin in the eye, tells him, “fuck me harder,” and Colin thrusts hard into him and then hits him again, and again, every time he starts to speak, and Louis hits him back and Colin hits him back harder and then they’re not even fucking anymore, they’re just hitting each other, harder every time, panting and wincing and groaning.

And then, from one second to the next, they go from wrestling around the bed, slapping, punching, biting, to lying closely entertwined, hearts thundering violently into one another’s chests, both sobbing.

When they’re all cried out, an unidentifiable amount of time later, they drag their beaten bodies into the bathroom and look at their sorry selves.

Louis’ cheeks are a deep dark purplish colour, eyes puffy and red, bottom lip torn and bleeding. Colin isn’t much better off.

“Fuck, I think I’m gonna wake up with a black eye,” he says, inspecting his bruised-up face, “what are they going to think at work?”

“Probably exactly what happened, I’m afraid.”

“Right,” Colin sighs, before he bends over the counter, pressing his forehead to the cool marble, “fucking hell.”

Louis leaves Colin standing there, feeling used up, apathetic, too tired to think about the fact that he just got in a schoolyard-ish fight with his own husband and somehow that felt like the most honest thing they’d done together in ages.

“I have to tell you something,” Colin says, slipping into bed beside him minutes later, “I’ve gone with someone else. A few times.”

Louis looks over at him. He’s looking at the black-screened telly across from their bed. That thing did always serve as a good distraction from anything going wrong here in bed. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Who?”

Colin licks over his lips. “Dick.”

Louis shifts a bit. “God, that is so fucked up.”

“Yeah,” Colin breathes. “But he’s moving departments anyway, so… you don’t have to worry about it happening again. It was only about… three times in all. After we’d had him over. I don’t know why. I just needed— something. I don’t know.”

He just needed to feel what it was like to be with someone who made him feel like a man. He just needed to feel what it was like to be with someone who made him feel like he was enough, just being him, no extra effort, no extra people, just enjoying it too. It must’ve been hard, for years, having all the sex you ever had focused entirely on fighting to be enough for the other person. Never quite succeeding.

Louis looks at Colin and Colin looks back at him, biting his lip, and Louis isn’t even angry at him. Not even remotely.

“Okay,” he says, “I forgive you.”

Colin blinks. “You do?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, shimmying down in the sheets, turning over, “like you said. He’s moving departments. It doesn’t matter. We’ve, like… sown our wild oats, innit. Lets just go to sleep now.”

It’s a very long while before Colin lays down too, sighing before he wraps around Louis from behind and whispers ten-thousand _I love you_ ’s into his skin.

 

*

 

Louis wakes before Colin the following morning. He doesn’t know why, but he just does. It’s hardly light outside, but he feels wide awake, can’t possibly sleep again. He slips out of bed, sore-slapped face throbbing, lip swollen where it broke, and revels in all of it, all of what takes just a little bit of focus away from how he feels on the inside.

He pads downstairs, puts on the yellow raincoat again because it’s the longest coat he can find and he hasn’t got trousers on, steps into a pair of wellies, takes his cigarettes and goes outside. He trots through the garden, boots swooping in the muddy grass, until he reaches the corner and crouches down. He sits there, by Betty’s grave, smoking and crying, for an hour or two.

It’s fully light, outside as well as in the house, when he gets up and heads back in.

“Oh. Shit,” Louis gasps, walking in and finding Colin on the couch, wrapped up in a duvet, staring directly at the patio-doors already. He predicted right last night; he’s got a black eye. “God, you look horrendous.”

“You think?” Colin half-laughs, mostly at the absurdity of it all, “I’ve called in sick for work.”

“Right.” Louis closes the doors behind himself, treads carefully out of his wellies, “probably for the best, yeah. Why don’t you have a lie in, then? It’s only, what—”

“Eight am.”

“Yeah. That.” Louis wavers a bit, arrested by Colin’s unyielding gaze, yellow coat dropping tiny beads of rain down around on his naked feet, “I was just out by Betty’s grave, having a smoke.”

“I know,” Colin says, “I watched you through the window.”

Louis coughs. “Right,” he says, unsure of whether to point the crying out before Colin does.

“You were crying,” Colin says, making that decision for him.

“Yeah,” Louis sighs. He starts to shrug out of his coat, just to avoid Colin’s eyes on him, “sorry, I was just—”

“Don’t apologise. Come sit down.”

“Okay, I— okay.”

The room is awfully quiet as Louis steps across the damp coat and wellies, puts his cigarettepack down on the coffee-table and then finally fits into the corner of the couch, facing Colin. He could stretch his icy cold legs out, warm his frozen toes between Colin’s duvet-cocooned thighs, but he doesn’t. He draws his knees up to his chest, closes his arms around his legs and watches Colin as he sits there for a long while, studying his duvet, picking at his chapped lips.

“I love you,” is what he says, after ages of silence, “I don’t think I ever won’t. And I don’t— I don’t know how to say this, I really really don’t, because…” he says, voice thinning more on every word, “because I love you so much.”

“What have you done?” Louis asks, calm because he can take it. If it’s more sex, more people, he can take it. “I’ll forgive it, darling, I will.”

And Colin just flinches at that. “No,” he says, “uhm…” Finally, he lifts his gaze, just as they brim over, tears rolling down his bruised face, “I’m not in love with you anymore.”

“Oh.” Louis shifts in his seat, stunned, utterly unsure of his own reaction, “okay. Maybe we can fix it, maybe we can make it better again, we— I can—”

Colin shakes his head, teary eyes screwing shut, “you can’t do anything,” he hiccups, “trust me, I’ve tried. I’ve tried for so long. I’ve tried with the sextoys, the fake smiles, the other people, the— everything. I’ve tried so, so hard, Lou, but it just doesn’t… it just doesn’t work.”

“Colin, shut up,” Louis says, “we’ve been together for fucking ages, of course it’s not like it was the very first time anymore, but that doesn’t mean—”

“Can you honestly say it?” Colin cuts right through, sniffling sharply as he looks up again, “can you? Honestly, really, Louis, tell me you’re still in love with me. Can you?”

Louis’ lips part without a sound. He— “I love you. So, so, so much.”

“Yeah,” Colin breathes shakily, dropping his head and throwing a hand out as his lips start to wobble, “you can’t even fuckin’ say it.”

Louis straightens up, desperate suddenly, swallows hard at everything that’s pressing it’s way up his throat, clears his throat, wipes roughly at his eyes. “Colin,” he says, “Colin, shut up, you can’t— you can’t do this. You can’t be serious. Darling, we’re— you’re my _life_. I love you, you’re my _family_ , you’re, you can’t, I— we’re _married_. It’s not just…” his voice cracks over as the tears starts to roll uncontrollably, chest tightening, “we said we’d be forever. We _vowed_ on it. We said the rest of our lives, Colin, do you really wanna—”

“Do you really want to live the _rest_ of your _entire_ life with someone you’re not in love with?”

Louis lips snap together, chest feeling as though he’s just been stabbed right through it.

“You’re— fuck, you’re not even thirty yet, Louis. Say you get to a hundred. That’s like, that’s like, over seventy years you’ve got,” Colin gets out between unsteady breaths. “Do you— do you really want to spend the next seventy years with me? _Just_ me?”

“But,” Louis says, just to say _something_ , anything to stop this from going where it seems to be because— they’re married. They have a home together, they’ve been everything to each other for so many years, he’s never ever been anything other than Colin’s, “but we can—”

“We can, what?” Colin asks, “we can waste ten years of our youth forcing ourselves to stay in something that’s just not working out?” Louis sobs loudly at that and Colin does too, but goes on anyway, “Because of, what? Because some man in a black dress made us say ‘I do’? Because our families will be disappointed in us? Because of your career? Because… because we’re too scared to sleep alone at night?”

He stares at Louis, eyes blurry with tears again, or maybe that’s just Louis’ own making everything look so.

“But,” Louis half-whispers, “if this is about the Harry-thing—”

“It’s not about the Harry-thing. It’s not.”

“Okay. Okay. If it’s about me not seeming happy lately, or the sex not— I can be better, I can, we can find a way to—”

“Louis, listen to me, it’s not anything you’re doing wrong,” Colin speaks through, “please. You’re just being you. And I’m just being me. But that’s just not,” he lifts his hands up and fits all his fingers together smoothly, “is it? You were a kid when I met you. I was too, really. We’ve grown up together and you’ve been everything to me, but at the same time I’ve also just…” he takes three long, deep breaths, then speaks again, “I’ve fallen out of love with you.”

“You don’t mean that,” Louis whispers, pleading, hurting, “you don’t.”

“I’m really, really, _really_ sorry,” Colin says, smiling bitterly up at Louis, tears streaming steadily, “I know I promised you everything and forever, but… I’m so, so, so sorry, Lou. I can’t give it to you.”

And, Louis opens his mouth to object, say something, anything to make him reconsider, but he finds that he can’t find a single word. He finds that he doesn’t say anything at all for a very, very long time. Neither of them do. Colin opens his duvet and Louis crawls into his lap and then they just sit like that, close, touching and nuzzling and kissing, soothing all bruises they’ve made on one another.


	21. Chapter 21

The house is the most quiet it’s ever been. It’s been just over an hour since Colin disentangled himself from their embrace and left the couch to go upstairs. He didn’t have to tell Louis what he went up there for. Louis knew anyway. He’s sitting on the couch still, left with Colin’s duvet, still warm from his body, still smelling just like him. It’s odd, Louis thinks, the smell of Colin is something he never really noticed much before now. The smell of Colin was the smell of family was the smell of every house he’s ever lived in since eighteen, every bed, every kitchen, every car, everything. It’s not even just Colin anymore, really. There’s no such thing at this point. It’s him and Colin, their smells mixed up together, creating this one smell that’s just— well, home.

He wonders at what point he’ll really come to realise how much he’s taken it for granted. Not just the smell, but all of it. All of the little things he can’t even come to think of right now because they’re so ingrained in his everyday life, however great they may be, he’s come to a point where they’re nothing much, really. Just expected. He wonders how bad it’ll hurt, once Colin’s gone and Louis starts to really notice all the invisible things he took with him. You never know what you have until it’s gone, is what they say. He doesn’t think that little cliche’s ever scared him more in his entire life than it does right this moment.

The thump of Colin’s suitcase hitting the wooden floors in the front hall reverberates through the house.

Louis’ breath hitches for the first time in almost an hour. He’d felt almost numb for a while there, just staring into thin air, chewing at the cotton duvet-cover, cheeks tight where his tears had dried out. Now he feels something again, properly, horribly, now he feels so, so scared.

“Colin,” he calls out, voice shaking.

“Yeah?”

“Are you leaving, you— where are you going, will… can I come say goodbye first?”

There’s a silence, a roll of suitcase-wheels against the floor, and then footsteps. “Louis,” he sighs, voice all rasp, arms dangling defeatedly down his sides, “do you honestly think I’d just leave without saying goodbye?”

And— no, he hadn’t thought that. He hadn’t thought anything. He isn’t sure about anything at all, right now. “Where are you going?” he asks, scrambling off the couch and closing the duvet around himself, following when Colin turns around and starts to walk back toward the hall.

“I’m going to stay at mum and dad’s for a while,” Colin says while still walking, head just a bit bowed, “I just spoke to mum. I won’t take the car, she’s on her way to pick me up now.”

“Oh. Okay.” Louis nods, standing in the middle of the hall in bare feet and a duvet, watching Colin lean down and fiddle with the suitcase-zipper. “Okay. She’s coming here? I should—”

“No, it’s all right. She’s just, ehm,” he stops to swallow, then stays leaned over the suitcase for a bit, hands steadied atop of it, “don’t think she’s coming inside.”

Right. Because Colin wanted to leave quick as possible. Not that Louis blames him. After something like this, there really isn’t much else to talk about. Well, there is, actually, so, so, so many things to be talked about whether they’d like to or not, so many little parts of their lives, tied up and tangled together, now having to be carefully unraveled, argued over and split down the middle. 

But today, right now, there isn’t anything more to talk about. They aren’t going to be practical today. Louis doesn’t even think he can manage sensible.

“Is this, like… is this final, to you? You walking out now?” he hears his thin little rasp of a voice ask, “you don’t want to try something more or… this is final to you?”

He isn’t sure what he wants, but he thinks it’s for Colin to say something so certain, so firm, that Louis doesn’t have to feel so gut-wrenchingly guilty for not trying harder to make him stay.

He doesn’t get his way. “Lou,” Colin says, finally turning, straightening up, poor right eye still dark and swollen, the other one just damp with tears, “can I ask you something? Just one thing, one question, right now, and hope that when you tell me you really do love me and when I sense that you respect all of what we’ve had together, that you’ll answer me honestly?”

Louis swallows audibly. “Yes.”

“Are you in love with him?”

“Yes,” Louis says, for the very first time out loud.

Colin closes his eyes, a stray tear crawling down his cheek. He wipes it away with a sharp sniffle, then nods, smiling bitterly; “okay,” he says, “and you’re not in love with me anymore,” he pauses, waits for Louis to say something, correct him, but he asked for the truth and it’s the least Louis can give him not to pipe up just to lie, just to spare his feelings, so he says nothing at all. “No,” Colin says, “you’re not.”

“And you’re not in love with me anymore either,” Louis reminds him, leaning back against the wall behind him. “So we’re equal in that sense, yet I’m not the one walking out on everything we’ve built up together, just like that. I’m in love with him, yes, but I’ve not— he’s going on tour, he’s not—”

“He’s not willing to give you a ring, a house, a car, a steady life like I have,” Colin says, “but if he were, you’d prefer it with him. Can you not hear how that sounds?” he asks, brows drawing closer, incredulous, “you’re not the only human being in this marriage, Lou. How would you feel, genuinely, if the only reason I stayed with you was that the man I really felt for wasn’t willing to give me the sort of lifestyle I wanted? Wouldn’t you feel just a little bit as though, I don’t know, that that wasn’t quite fair on either of us?”

Louis lets go of a ragged breath. “You said you weren’t in love with me anymore. What does it matter to you, then? How much I feel for him?”

“You said you were in love with him,” Colin says, “why won’t you make the sacrifice and leave me for him? I would have,” he adds, “I’d do anything for the one I loved. Sacrifice… anything.”  

Louis shakes his head. “I can be in love with him and not be fucking— I’m not a fucking teenager, Colin. What kind of a grown man am I, if I leave everything that I’ve built, everything that I’ve had with you since I was fifteen years old, just because of… some feeling I have inside? For some man that I haven’t even ever had the chance to go on a fucking date with, I don’t even know if he wants marriage or kids or a house in England or L.A., I don’t even—”

“Fuck, you’re so selfish. You’re so fucking selfish, I hate you,” Colin sobs through it, staring pointedly at the floor as his shoulders start to shake, “you’ve been— you’ve so clearly been thinking about all these things when you’ve been thinking about him, you’ve— you’ve been scared to leave me, but that’s— that’s just shit when the only reason is that you respect all the things we used to have,” he says, “we can’t live the rest of our life, desperately sucking happiness out of memories from years ago, that’s just not— that’s not how I want to live. That’s not how _you_ want to live. Even if you think it is. Or, or you think you can. You’re not making me happy, doing that. You’re just being deceptive, even to yourself.”

They hear a car pulling up outside and Colin’s gaze flicks, for a second. He wipes at his cheeks and grabs the handle of his suitcase.

“I’m sorry,” Louis whispers, tears streaming down his cheeks again, because Colin’s right, in everything he’s just said, and Louis can’t find a single word in objection. They’ve fallen out of love. They both deserve more. “I’m sorry, I love you, darling. I do. I’m sorry.”

Colin nods, lips pressed together, and then turns and opens their front door. He rolls the suitcase out while Louis watches, goosebumps running up his bare legs, hands shaking where they fist around the duvet.

Colin takes one step outside, then turns and walks back in, scooping Louis up in his arms. “I love you,” he whispers shakily, and Louis opens the duvet, lets him in, clutches onto him and soaks up the front of his shirt, “I love you, I’ll always love you, I love you so, so much,” Colin keeps on, pressing kisses all over Louis’ face, breathing in his hair, nosing into his skin, “you’re the best thing I’ve ever— you deserve everything.”

“You do too,” Louis hiccups, holding him so tightly it must be suffocating, “you do too, darling, you’re so fucking amazing. Love you.”

Colin pulls back when his mum honks the car-horn, face a wrecked mess, hairs clinging to the sides of it, and smiles down at Louis through it all. He mouths out those three little words again, then leans down and fits their mouths together, holding Louis’ face in his hands.

The kiss lasts for however long it lasts, however long they need it to, and when it ends, Colin presses one more to Louis’ forehead, and then turns around and leaves.

 

*

 

He expects the first night to be the worst, but it isn’t. The first night, Louis is so drained from sobbing and smoking and sobbing some more, that when he makes it up to bed, all he does is fall right asleep. It’s the second night that really gets him. It’s the second night when he, after an entire day of walking around in circles, slowly allowing reality to dawn on him, crawls into that big cold bed on his own, that it hurts like knives stabbing into every bit of his body. He falls asleep after hours of tossing and turning, constantly trying to push away anything resembling coherent thoughts, smoking, masturbating, playing stupid games on his phone, all to distract. He wakes again an hour later, in the middle of the bed, and then the hour after that, on Colin’s cold side of it, and the next hour and the next, and then finally gives up on dipping in and out of shallow sleep and gets up at nine am.

He avoids human contact for a few hours, chain-smoking and telly-watching, but is forced to call his manager up later in the day, and then explain what’s happening and why he needs a little bit of a break. She’s lovely about it, doesn’t so much as point a tiny little finger at all the terrible consequences this break-up will have on his career, just tells him to take his time and that she hopes he’ll be all right.

After speaking to her, he cries again for the first time since he got out of bed. He doesn’t stop for three whole days.

It’s the combination of everything, he thinks. Failing at everything he stands for, failing Colin, failing himself, failing Betty, - and that’s the only ‘positive’ thing he can think of in relation to her passing; that she didn’t have to go through being the center of a custody battle. It’s the fact that the only thing he wants all day, every day, the only thing his body screams for soon as he wakes just a tiny bit from his solitary alcohol-haze, is Harry. Harry, Harry, Harry. He wants to be consoled by him, held by him, wants to do it all back in return, wants to apologise for everything he did to hurt him, wants to talk to him for ages, wants to have him here just to sit and not talk at all.

He wants all of that, but summoning Harry now, four days after getting left by his husband, seven days after watching Harry confess his love to him and not confessing it back even though he felt it more than anything, feels wrong in too many ways. Feels like taking a massive dump on his entire marriage, the thought of Colin knowing he had Harry here with him, in the house they bought and made into a home together, only days after their separation, too heartbreaking to even consider. Feels like taking a massive dump on Harry too, like using him for some sort of post-marital rebound, like a bedmate because he doesn’t know how to sleep alone, like a sextoy because he doesn’t know how to sit around alone with his own head. He doesn’t want to do that to Harry. He doesn’t want to use him like he used to.

So, he stays at home. And he watches television. And he chainsmokes and he chaindrinks and he chains himself to the bed because he doesn’t even have to go down to the fucking couch since he’s got a telly up in the bedroom. He cocoons himself in the bliss of alcohol-apathy and How I Met Your Mother and turning the heating up too high and cuddling king-pillows like people.

He doesn’t speak to a living soul until one day, maybe a week after Colin’s left, maybe two if he’s lost total sense of time, the doorbell rings.

At the time that it does, he’s not particularly intoxicated, but in turn he reeks as though he hasn’t showered in exactly as long he hasn’t. He can’t find it in himself to feel sufficiently self-conscious for it, though, has wept far too much these past many days to have any sort of feeling for unimportant things like whether his pits stink or whether he hasn’t changed his underwear in a week, if he’s even wearing any, he can’t be bothered to check.

He waddles down the stairs on rubber-like legs that haven’t been down here in a while, not since he picked up the massive take-out order he’s been living off of for three full days now. The fries have gotten a bit chewy by now, yes, but it’s nothing a big gulp of whiskey can’t wash down in no time.

The person who rung the doorbell is now knocking the door instead, violently so, and yelling on the other side of it. He can’t make out who’s voice it is through the door, but it’s not the mail-man or any of the neighbors, they wouldn’t scream like that. It can’t be anybody but somebody Louis knows. Fuck.

“Yes?” he rasps on a voice that’s been out of use for ages, opening the door just as far as the locked door-chain lets him.

And, fuck. It _is_ someone he knows.

“Louis, what the hell is going on,” Liam hisses, big brown eyes staring down at him, “I’ve been trying— oh my _god_ , you stink.”

Louis stumbles backwards. “Fuck you, I’m not letting you in with that attitiude.”

Liam rolls his eyes. “Louis,” he says, “I’ve been trying to reach you every day for the past four or five days. I even called Colin and he said—”

“What’d Colin say?”

“He said he didn’t know whether you were all right because he hadn’t seen you since he left you,” Liam replies, simple, but soft, “Louis, mate, let me in, I can tell you’re not all right.”

So, with a sigh, Louis unhooks the door-chain and steps further back, much further back, so as not to make Liam’s eyes sting with the stench of himself.

Liam doesn’t speak as he rubs his shoes off on the mat, pulls his long leathergloves and his coat off, hangs it neatly, unlaces his boots and finally pulls off his scarf. When he does say something, it’s just; “it’s a mess in here.”

“Then you don’t want to see the rest of it,” Louis mutters dryly, turning and making way into the kitchen. Liam follows soundlessly, pulls out a chair by the dining-table and watches Louis annoyingly intently while he upends the cabinets to find two clean tea-mugs.

“How are you feeling?” Liam asks, eventually.

“Shit,” Louis replies honestly.

“Yeah,” Liam sighs, taking the thin cup of tea Louis’ shaky fingers just served him, “that’s understandable.”

Louis sits down in front of him, nodding. “Thanks.”

A moment passes, both slurping their terrible tea’s, then putting them down, thumbs tapping the sides of their mugs.

“So, ehm…” Liam breaks the ice with, “d’you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

Liam nods, gaze roaming Louis’ downturned face. “S’it to do with Harry?”

Louis’ head snaps up. “What? Why would it—”

“Well, because you and him have been…” Liam sways his head around a bit, as if that says it all, “you know…”   

“No I don’t, what are you talking about?” Louis exclaims. Sure, they’ve been fucking in the lad’s flat alot, but he honestly didn’t think any of the lads had noticed. Especially not Liam of all people, who’s always semi-asleep even when he’s awake.

“Louis,” Liam sighs, tilting his head, smiling a little, annoying, patronizing, “come on, mate.”

“Come on, what?”

Liam tilts his head further. “Come on, mate.”

“Come on, what?”

Liam tilts his head so far his neck makes a loud popping noise. “Come on, mate.”

“Come fucking on fucking _what_?!” Louis screams, throwing a hand out and knocking his tea-cup over. It rolls right off the edge of the table, then smashes on the floor. “Oops.”

“Harry’s been confiding in me,” Liam says, right as Louis turns his gaze down toward the broken bits of porcelain.

Louis looks back up. “What? What do you mean?”

“I mean, he’s been telling me… stuff. Regularly,” Liam says, and with that look in his eyes he really doesn’t have to say anything else, but he does anyway; “don’t think he’s been talking quite as much to the other lads, though, so don’t worry. But… he’s always up early and so am I, when I get back from my shifts so we have a lot of conversations in the am. Or, _had_ , I suppose, now that he’s flown off again.”

“Right,” Louis croaks, flustered, “well, what did he, what—“

“Everything,” Liam says, placing both elbows on the table, resting his chin in his hand, looking Louis directly in the eyes, “everything.”

“Everything?”

“Nothing.”

Louis sighs in relief. “Really?”

“No, I lied. Everything.”

Fuck. “Fuck you, stop it, I’m in pain here,” Louis groans, dropping his forehead onto the table, “what are you even doing here?”

A hand comes into his hair, timidly petting the back of it, as though trying to be affectionate, but at the same time hide the utter disgust at how long it’s been since Louis’ washed himself. “I’m checking up on you, mate.”

“I don’t need checking up on.”

“Why are you being like this? I’m your best mate. Well, lately we haven’t been around each other much, but I gather that’s more due to Harry than me. Or so I’ve told myself in order to cope with the pain of rejection.”

Louis allows a small huff of a chuckle to leave his lips, creating ripples in the pool of tea left on the table before his face.

“But, in fear of sounding too saintly, I will admit, I’m not just here because of me,” Liam goes on, “Harry’s been calling non-stop, like… almost every day, asking me to make sure you’re all right.”

Louis’ gaze flicks up. “Does he know? About Colin leaving?”

“No. But he just wants you to be all right. It’s like, hm… okay, it’s like…” Liam pulls his hand away from Louis’ hair and “discretely” wipes it off on his thigh, “it’s like, when you really like someone, or really care about them, as an alpha - and I remember this, even now - it physically hurts not to know whether they’re all right. It burns inside your chest, all over your skin, you can’t eat, sleep, think, it’s so instinctual, that. Wanting to care for the one that you… care for.”  

“Right.” Louis leans down into his hands, digs his thumbs into his temples. “Listen, I can’t really—”

“I know. I’m sorry. I just wanted to explain to you what it’s like. From, like… our side of the table. Or pespective. Or whatever you’d like to call it.”

“Yeah, I get it, Liam.”

“Anyway, if you don’t feel like talking about Colin or Harry or any of that right now, there’s something else I wanted to chat about. Involving myself. And my miserable fucking failure of a life,” he says, and Louis glances halfway up, “if you’re interested in feeling a bit better about yourself.”

“I’m listening.”

Liam grins.

 

*

 

Liam makes them two new cups of proper tea, due to non-shaky hands, and tells Louis to bring his laptop down. When Louis comes down again, Liam has removed all take-out boxes and bottles from the couch and made space for them to sit.

“You wanna smoke?” Liam suggests.

Louis’ eyes widen. “Really?”

“Really.”

Louis’ own smoking habits are very mood-dependent. Sometimes he goes days or even weeks without cigarettes and other times, he won’t be able to sit still if he hasn’t got that little tobacco-roll pinned between his fingers. Colin, Harry and Niall never smoke - except Niall does, but only if he’s trying to impress a hot girl or he’s mistaken the cigarette for a spliff. Zayn smokes pretty much all the time, it seems, but less if he’s getting laid a lot.

And Liam. Liam only smokes for the sake of other people.

So, in sad celebration of the fact that there isn’t a Colin to come home and tell Louis off for smoking inside, they sit around on the livingroom couch and puff for a couple minutes.

“So,” Liam says eventually, tapping smoke off in the hand-painted ashtray Colin’s six-year-old nephew made them for Christmas, “Viv and I broke up.”

“Noo,” Louis exclaims, feigning surprise. “Why?”

He grins sardonically. “She got sick and tired of me being more interested in playing cards than having sex.”

“Ah,” Louis bites back half of a chuckle, “I can see how that might annoy a pretty young fertile omega like her.”

Liam nods, gaze lowering a bit.

“Why didn’t you just take those little blue pills?”

“Well…” Liam sighs, and looks up again, eyes tired, earnest, “fuck it, I’m just going to say it. And this is like— something I’ve sort of said before, but not quite full-on because… well, I wanted to be normal. I wanted to have what everyone else had. I was born so privileged, into the breed that’s considered the fucking kings of the world, right? So I never wanted to properly say what I really, honestly felt about this because what if I one day woke up and realised I did want a wife and kids? I did want to go on tripple-dates with other couples and be considered normal and not get questioned about my homosexuality at every fucking family gathering ever? So I never really said it, but I’m going to now.”

“You’re homosexual?” Louis asks, “mate, I am too, just for the record. And Harry, sort of, semi-ish. And Colin. And loads of your friends, even your fucking cousins and your—”

“I’m not bloody gay,” Liam cuts through exasperatedly, “god, I’ve wished I were just bloody gay. That’s pretty much universally accepted these days, so long as you’re a wellfunctioning person, innit?”

“Yeah. So you’re not gay. What is it then? You’re a foot fetishist? You like watersports? Oh, god, it’s not like… it’s not like animals, is it—”  

“Louis,” Liam exclaims, “No. No, it’s not, fuck, what do you think of me, are you insane?”

“Well, no, but if you had those urges, but you’d never ever _ever_ acted on them, then I wouldn’t think any less of you. Honestly, I’d just feel bad for you and tell you you needed therapy.”

“Louis,” Liam hisses, gone reddish in the face now, “are you going to let me tell you what it is or not?”

“Yes,” Louis says, laughing properly for the first time in over a week. “Yes, yes, go on, then.”

Liam lets out a long sigh. “I don’t like sex. Like, at all.”

“I know,” Louis says, “you’re not into one night st—”

“No,” Liam raises his brows, “I don’t like sex. At all. _Ever_. Like, like… to the point that I’d prefer inseminating someone with my semen rather than having sex to get them pregnant.”

Louis blinks. Then he laughs. Then he stops laughing, when he realises Liam’s face hasn’t twitched. “Are you serious? Like, not even _sometimes_? Not even with Viv? Ever?”

“Well, she… I don’t want to tell you stuff she said in private because she’s really sweet and lovely and we’re still friends, but. Okay, she’d been in a situation with a longterm boyfriend before me which’d made her feel really used. So she didn’t mind us not having sex. We would just, like, cuddle and such.”

“Okay. That sounds… cosy.”

Liam snorts. “Yeah,” he says, “well, yeah, to me it was. But, eventually, she felt so safe with me she was ready to do stuff. Which, inevitably, ended our relationship.”

“You didn’t even try?”

“I did try,” Liam says, “I took the little blue pills and we had sex, but she stopped me midway through because she could tell I was only doing it for her. She didn’t want it to be so one-sided and in the end, she broke up with me over it. I can’t blame her.”

“No,” Louis mutters, “fuck, Liam,” he adds, and then, after a moment of processing, “why’d you spew all that bullshit, then? About fucking her and whatnot?”

Liam sighs, rolling his eyes at himself. “Because I’m a grown man who lies about having great sex so that my cool friends will think I’m cool too.”

“Fuck, that’s sad,” Louis blurts, and when he sees Liam face fall, he quickly exclaims, “because we think you’re cool just being you!” Which is true, but Liam looks sceptic, “seriously, Li. We do. All of us. I mean, we’ve always known you weren’t the big, like… skirt-chaser. You’ve had The Snip, for fuck’s sake. I don’t understand why you’d feel pressured to—”

“It just felt nice for a while. Being the way I was,” he makes air quotes, “ _supposed_ to be.”

“Right.” Louis sighs, smiling softly. “D’you want me to put any of this in the book?”

“Yeah. I want to be honest with myself. I think that’s sort of the purpose of the book, innit? No use if I’m lying for exactly all the reasons that the book is trying to combat, is there?”

Right. Louis nods down at his lap. He hasn’t let himself think about his book since Colin left. Probably for a while before that, too. He’s felt like a hypocrite ever since the very first time Harry knotted him and he’s tried to push it away, he’s made up all sorts of excuses for himself. Up until Colin left, at the very least, he still felt like he could look himself in the eye, like he wasn’t lying when he showcased a successful beta-omega marriage.

Now he just feels like a deceptive piece of shit.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Liam says, and Louis looks up, “but you have to realise that people get divorced for all sorts of reasons. Beta-omega, beta-beta, alpha-omega, all of them. They do. And, regardless of whether your own particular marriage worked out or not, you’ve still helped so many other ones realise that they’re not alone. And they’re not wrong for wanting something different than what their breed is “supposed” to. That’s your message, essentially. In your first book, you talked beta-omega marriage. You used yourself as ethos - at the time everything you said was true. It still is; maybe not for you, but for all the happy, but undermined beta-omega relationships out there, it is, and they’re happy someone like you wrote a book for them,” Liam explains, “In this book now, you’re talking alpha’s and The Snip. I’m helping you there. If, in ten years, I regret my Snip and have a sudden explosive urge to fuck everything that moves, that won’t invalidate anything I’ve said or helped with in the book. It’ll still help thousands of alpha’s who don’t feel like they live up to the standard they’re supposed to. Even in your first book, so many of the things you wrote also applied to alpha’s. Reading your book and watching the conversation that you’ve started, or at least helped along, it’s helped me stop hating myself like I used to. ”

He stops, just to catch his breath and see that Louis’ still following.

“And, and Louis, you had a beautiful, loving relationship from age fifteen to twenty-seven. That’s way longer than most alpha-omega teenage relationships last. That’s not a failure just because it ended. Things end, people change. What you and Colin had was meant to happen, it was great for what it was and you wouldn’t be where you are today, had you not been with him. You’re not a failure. You’re one of the most intelligent people I know,” he says, gaze flickering a bit when he realises Louis’ fighting not to blink and cry again, “and, like, on another note, Lou. I miss you coming around everyday. I miss my best mate.”

He finally stops, and Louis finally blinks, then sniffles and wipes at his cheeks and Liam smiles a bit shyly.

“Thanks,” Louis rasps, “that was really nice of you to say.”

“It was really true of me to say.”

Louis smiles. Liam hugs him for a very long time.


	22. Chapter 22

After Liam’s left that evening, Louis packs every semi-clean piece of his clothing he can find into the car, throws Colin a text to tell him that the house is left empty in case he needs to get anything without seeing Louis’ ugly mug, and drives up to Donny. He stays with his family for a week, counting himself lucky to have the sort of job that lets him fuck off up north and sleep in his childhood bedroom and be served with brekkie in bed and an abundance of hugs and kisses and _we love you no matter what, Lou, it’s going to be all right_ ’s.

He does have to drive back down to London eventually, though. When he does, he finds that Colin’s been by and picked up pretty much half his own closet, all of his chords, chargers, his shaving gear, his lenses and some other shit from the medicine cabinet, even the fucking Xbox.

Then again, Louis’ kept the car and Colin’s been the one to leave his home even though he’s just as entitled to stay in it as Louis is.

The missing Xbox does help him in some respects; he soon runs out of ways to distract himself from the depths of his despair and gets back to work. His book gets tended to; in collaboration with his editor, the final draft begins to form itself. They do a fun photoshoot with Liam and the lads to showcase Liam’s more-than-happy-AfterSnip-life.

They drive up to Wolverhampton to get a few quotes and delicious slices of homemade apple-pie of out Liam’s parents, then end up sitting through a very emotionally draining dinner during which Liam comes out to his mum, dad, sisters, grandparents, all in one sitting, after getting asked two-thousand times _what happened to that sweet Vivian we saw on your Facebook, she looked like a nice girl, you deserve a nice girl, Liam_. When, initially, Liam begins to try and explain what he’s feeling, he gets flustered, goes red in the face and somehow suddenly begins to affect a strong Scottish accent, so Louis looks up the definition for ’asexual’ on his phone and helps out by passing it around the entire table.

After that, things smoothen up a bit. Liam’s mum cries a bit, mostly because she fears he’ll be lonely one day, and Liam’s dad seems to have gone spontaneously mute, but he they both smile genuinely and nod when one of Liam’s sisters says _we’re a bit confused right now cause we never heard of that term before, but I hope you don’t take that as us thinking any less of you. We want to understand and we’re happy that you’ve told us and you know we don’t give a fuck as long as you’re happy_ , and chuckle when Liam’s gran says _yeah, sex is a fuckin’ mess anyway, half the time you don’t even come, you’re better off just having another slice of apple-pie, dear_.

When driving back down, Liam leans into the window with a long sigh and then smiles to himself in a way Louis hasn’t seen him do much before; in the way that one smiles when they don’t even realise they’re doing it, when they’re drained and dozing off and thinking their last little private thoughts before they do, and, well— it just comes natural. When it’s just genuine happiness.

 

*

 

The happy distractions don’t last forever, though.

They never last an entire day if he’s honest, always this ache in his chest, these obsessive thoughts he can’t rid, going on a loop, constantly having to be pushed away unless he wants them to fill so much he can’t even speak anything but _Harry. Harry, Harry, Harry. I miss you, I miss you, I miss you. I love you._

He wants to call Harry, every morning that he wakes, every night that he doesn’t sleep, he wants to hear Harry’s voice so bad he almost cries from it. So, he abstains from alcohol so as not to call him and say something he’s not sure he’ll be able to stand by in the sober light of day. Something like, _come back to me. Come now. I want you, I’ll give you everything that you want, everything that you deserve, everything that I never knew you wanted_. He abstains so as not to do something like that, because he knows he can’t give Harry everything. Not yet.

He can’t, because after three weeks of not speaking apart from practical non-conversations over text, Colin asks to meet Louis for lunch. And they talk. And they cry. And when the bill comes, they split it. And it’s clear then, if it wasn’t already, that this is final. This is really it.

They drive back home together, drink tea and talk about how each other have been without really telling anything. It’s after they’ve opened a bottle of wine together, and just sat for a while, that they find the courage to talk about the unavoidable.

The talk doesn’t finalize itself that evening, or the one after that, or the one after that.

They agree that Colin stays in the house and buys Louis out - if they hadn’t done that, Louis thinks he’d have done it the other way round; he can’t bear the thought of leaving poor Betty out there in the garden under a few rocks as if she never even existed.

That’s all they agree on that night.

The rest takes much longer than it has to. Louis moves into the lad’s flat - the loft-room gets a massive descentifying and airing out before it’s remotely habitable, and Colin moves back home. Louis gets the car because he picked it and Colin never liked that model anyway, and in turn Louis pays off the amount Colin put into it when they first bought it. They text and call back and forth about dividing co-bought possessions, mainly furniture, but Louis did never put much emotional value into his things and, besides, the lad’s have an Xbox, telly, kettle and everything else that he needs. Mostly, he wants to procrastinate, wants to bury himself in getting his book ready for publishing and hanging with his mates to keep from checking up on every new thing Harry does around the world.

Colin allows him, busy trying to make partner himself, and months and months pass by. Eventually, Colin buys Louis out, adding on a compensation for keeping pretty much all of the furniture in the house. Maybe it’s laziness, maybe it’s just that Louis isn’t particularly materialistic, if he has to pride himself on something.

Maybe it’s that they furnished that house together and the idea of moving half of everything out of there is a bit too heartbreaking to allow.

 

*

 

But, the loft-room isn’t a longterm solution. Louis starts looking for flats. Small ones, tiny ones, ones that are really just rooms, but where he can be a tenant, hopefully get on with the flatmates. He looks for anything within his pay-range. When he isn’t doing that, he’s promoting his book, getting as many readers as possible hyped for when it hits the stores.

Once it does, Louis’ one big ball of nerves, wound up by the absolute terror and elation it is to have his work devoured and possibly ripped apart by the world.

The book does well. It does really, really well.

He gets invited on talkshows, radio-shows, does a load interviews, does a tour round the country’s bookstores to sign and interact with readers, he does well. He does better.

In the midst of all that, in fact _precisely_ in the midst of his book-tour, the divorce is finalized.

And Louis hasn’t told a living soul outside manager, close friends and family, about it.

“Come on, mate, your second book isn’t even about your marriage at all,” Zayn tells him when he moans about it one evening. They’re slouched around the couch area, telly humming in the background, take-out all over the coffee-table, a copy of Louis’ book used as a coaster. They’re having a chill night in and Louis feels anything but.

“I know that, but— you don’t get it, I’ll come off like a complete fuckin’ fraud. If you lie once, you lie always. That’s the general consensus when it comes to people who’s opinions you’re surposed to trust and respect, innit?”

“Yeah, but your second book isn’t even about your marriage at all, like,” Zayn repeats, as if Louis hadn’t replied the first time, “And it did better than your first.”

“So far,” Louis mutters.

Liam just smiles at him from the other couch, and when the other lads have headed off to call or see their current girlfriends, he says; “I promise you, Lou. The longer you go with it alone, built it up in your own head, the worse it gets. Besides,” he says, “ _he_ left _you_. Not the other way round. It’s not like you ran off with Harry or anything.”

Louis swallows, momentarily sidetracked by the mention of the name. “Yeah,” he says after a beat, “but he left me because shit was going wrong because he wasn’t enough for me. Because he wasn’t alpha.”

“No,” Liam corrects, “he left you because you guys weren’t in love anymore. That has zero to do with anything in the downstairs region.”

“Well, maybe not to you, but it does to us filthy vile sex-lovers,” Louis says, “and it did to Colin and I.”

“So? No one needs to know that.”

“My readers aren’t stupid, they’ll see right through it,” he says, “and what if the next guy I date ends up being an alpha? What then? I’ll still look like a fucking idiot.”

“Right,” Liam shrugs a shoulder, “so you will, then. Maybe your sales will go down a little. Maybe they won’t. Either way, it is what it is and the longer you keep this a secret, the more deceptive you’ll seem when it inevitably does come out.”

Louis buries into his arms with a long sigh. “Yeah... fuck.”

 

*

 

Fuck indeed. Two weeks and several long talks with his management later, he’s showing a young journalist from The A/B/O Times into the lad’s flat. The guy wears a high-buttoned polka-dot buttondown, skinny jeans, pointy-toed Oxfords and has his hair permed at the top, shaved at the sides.

He introduces himself as Alex.

“Come in, come in, Alex,” Louis says, walking backwards in the hallway that he’s just scrubbed sparkling clean ten minutes ago. Fuck it if he’s going to have the article go something like _I’m let into the sad ruins of Louis Tomlinson’s life. He now lives in a dirty little bachelor-pad with two sextoy-selling beta’s and a snipped alpha, nursing his post-divorce depression_.

“Thank you,” Alex says, eyes darting round the room, clearly sucking in every bit of visual information that he can.

Louis leads them into the kitchen, pulls a chair out for Alex and offers him tea, or coffee, or fizzy, or water, or milk or—

“Tea’s fine, thanks,” Alex cuts him off, pulling out his slick little MacBook Air.

Louis fumbles around in the kitchen, halfheartedly bantering with Alex about traffic on his way here and where his flatmates are hiding - Liam’s at work and Zayn and Niall are at the pub down the street, because Louis forced them to go.

He sits down across from Alex.

Alex is tapping on his keyboard and Louis narrows his eyes, trying to make use of the X-ray vision he doesn’t possess to see through the back of the screen.

“So,” Alex says with a sharp tap of the keyboard, eyes snapping up, “Louis.”

Louis leans back in his chair, feigning confidence. “Alex.”

Alex smiles. “I interviewed you two years ago,” he says, “you didn’t live here then.”

“No,” Louis sighs, knowing exactly what he’s asking. He’s been preparing himself for this, a lot, but sitting here now, he still doesn’t feel quite ready. He doesn’t know how the article’s going to be conveyed, no matter how well he does. He doesn’t know anything but that the second he puts this information out there for Alex, and then the world, to know, it’s a point of no return. “Well,” he says, takes a deep breath in through his nostrils, and then letting it out through his lips, “I’ve gone through a bit of divorce since then.”

“Ah,” Alex says, eyes beaming, and Louis can almost see the little bell inside his head going _ding ding ding, this was easy_. He tries to control his elation. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he says, as though he didn’t already know. Louis’ manager spoke to the editor of the magazine, presumably Alex’ boss, and arranged this entire thing, so it’s highly unlikely, not to speak of unprofessional to come that unprepared, if the journalist they sent wouldn’t know anything beforehand.

He’s not a prick, though. He’s just being polite and Louis is on the defensive. “Thank you,” Louis says, and waits patiently as Alex taps away on his Mac again.

“How are you feeling?” he asks after a moment.

“I’m feeling… well in regards to the divorce, I suppose I’m still not entirely over it.”

Alex peeks an eye up at him, fingers still drumming away. “No?”

“I mean,” Louis shrugs a shoulder, “I don’t know if you’ve ever gone through a divorce, but they’re… they’re tough.”

“I can only imagine. Right, ehm… so, if you don’t mind me asking, Louis,” he mutters before looking up again, “was it a mutual decision?”  

Louis sighs, folding his hands together in his lap. “I don’t know, really,” he says, “it was and it wasn’t,” he hums, “at the end of the day, we’d grown apart. If it hadn’t been one of us initiating the split then it would’ve been the other, eventually.”

Alex nods, slowly. “But you’re not interested in disclosing who exactly it was?”

“I… no,” Louis says. His manager begged him to tell the truth, to say it was Colin, all Colin, but the fact of the matter is it wasn’t really, it was both of them, wearing each other down, forcing themselves for far too long. He sees that now. He doesn’t want to make Colin into the coward who ran, the selfish prick who fell out of love and left, because he isn’t. They both left, in their own ways. “No, it really doesn’t matter. And we’re on good terms, still.”

They even met just yesterday for lunch to discuss today’s interview, whereafter Colin let Louis go back to the house just to sit by Betty’s grave for a bit. They don’t talk or hang out because just smelling the insides of the house that used to be home had Louis a bit blurry-eyed with nostalgia, and Colin doesn’t seem interested in that either. They’re moving on and they’re learning how to live without being part of one another’s lives and it’s fucking hard some days still, but Louis’ coping.

That said; “if I ever heard something happened to him, that he got hurt or anything, I’d be there in an instant. I’ll never not love him. It’s just simply not possible, after all these years.”

Alex nods, gracefully concealing the disappointment at not retrieving juicier, more hateful information.

They chat for a while about Louis’ divorce, about what happened without going into nearly as much detail as Alex attempts to, bless his young journalist-spirit, and they talk about life after marriage, life as single for the first time since age fifteen - Louis disappoints him there too, _no I’ve really not seen anyone at all, I’ve just focused on my career, my friends, getting back on my feet_ , which is true, but of course he doesn’t tell Alex the part where he’s been obsessively following Harry Styles’ life online, not wanting to disturb him, not wanting to try anything while still married, not knowing how to once he wasn’t anymore. It’s nobody’s business but his own.

“So,” Alex says at some point, and somehow Louis knows exactly what he’s about to ask before he does, his stomach clenching up with anxiety, “your first book, you spoke of beta-omega marriage. You’ve since then done an array of different public appearances in which you’ve defended everything in there. Now that you’re marriage has come to an end, how do you feel about it?”

Louis swallows thickly, and then clears his throat. He’s been preparing himself for this. He knew this was coming. He can do this.

“I feel the same,” he says, “exactly the same as before.”

“Really? Even as your - and pardon me, now I don’t know what exactly happened in your marriage, but - even as your own beta-omega marriage, which you’d based a lot of your book upon, didn’t work out?”

Louis nods, schooling his features. If he shows any sign of weakness, a skilled people-person and journalist like Alex will no doubt get it down something like, _after I ask Mr. Tomlinson the question, he gives a strained smile, tugs on his collar and coughs, before he answers in a high-pitched tone, “yeah, I mean, ehm, yeah”_.

So, he controls himself. Says calmly, nonchalantly, “not a doubt in the world.”

“How so?” Alex asks, eyes widening, enticed.

“Well, you see, Alex,” Louis begins, having found his grip again, laying his elbows gently down on the table, “my story isn’t about me in particular. If it were just about my individual story, I’d have named it something like… ‘hi, my name is Louis, I’m married to Colin’ — you get what I mean. But I didn’t name it that because I was only using my own story as an example. An example of the discrimination beta-omega’s - and just beta’s and omega’s individually - face in our society today. An example of two people who hadn’t done anything "wrong" but simply love each other, and yet got treated as though their love couldn’t possibly be legitimate. An example of a happy healthy beta-omega relationship.”

“But you weren’t happy.”

“But we were.”

“Until you weren’t.”

Louis smiles tightly, leaning back again. “We were happy and healthy at the time that I wrote the book. The fact that we, as two individual people, regardless of breed, ended up growing apart later on, has no bearing on the message I conveyed in the book.”

“Hm,” Alex says, unconvinced still, “but you ended up divorcing. Wouldn’t that suggest that -  and I hope you don’t take offense because I’m just playing the devil’s advocate here - in the end, the beta-omega marriage that you preached about, wasn’t really all that happy and healthy?”

Louis tilts his head. He’s got to find a different approach. “Alex,” he says, “you’re an omega, no?”

“Yes. How could you tell I wasn’t beta?”

“I don’t know, I guess I just have an eye for it,” Louis says, but really, what happened was he did his research before Alex came here, “have you ever been in a serious relationship?”

Alex brows furrow a little, but he nods.

“With an…”

“Alpha,” Alex helps, and jackpot. Yes.

“More than one?” Louis asks.

“Yes, I— yes, my current boyfriend and my boyfriend before him. And one before that.”

“Right,” Louis says, “and those relationships before your current boyfriend ended. Would you consider them to have been healthy and happy?”

Alex chews on his lip. “I mean,” he says, “at the time, I did. Until we got to a point where it had to end.”

“Right,” Louis says, smile widening, “now, how would you have felt if those relationships had been questioned, at the time that they felt happy and healthy and you, I presume, felt in love, with these boyfriends?”

“I mean—”

“You do agree that when you were with these men, in these serious relationships, that the reason they lasted longer than, say, a few shortterm flings you’d had with other alpha’s, was that you felt a connection with the _person_? On a higher level than just breed, body, social pressures. You just connected with them, at the time. Personality-wise. No?”

Alex nods, gone quiet suddenly, mouth a thin line, eyes wide.

“Right,” Louis says, straightening up in his seat, “well, those relationships you had, which felt exactly as healthy and happy and loving at the time that you had them as my relationship with my now ex-husband did, ended. They ran their course, for reasons that had nothing to do with breed. Right?”

Alex nods again.

“Good,” Louis says, “well, that’s exactly what happened to my marriage. If the next man I date is an alpha then that’s because I’ve fallen in love with a man who just so happened to be an alpha. If he’s beta, or even omega, who knows, maybe that’ll be my next book then,” Louis grins, “if he’s any of those things, then that’s because I love the _person_ behind. The individual.”

“Right.”

“Right,” Louis agrees, “so, I’ve had a loving relationship which ran it’s natural course, just like you have before. Difference is, for no right reason, I’ll be questioned on my entire belief system, I’ll be used as an example of how beta-omega marriage just doesn’t work properly, ever, in general, whereas you won’t for your alpha-omega one.”

“Right,” Alex breathes.

Louis leans back for the last time, a satisfied smile spreading across his face. “So if you ask me, Alex, which you did,” he sighs, “I’d say this only reaffirms the entire message that I’m spreading.”

 

*

 

Soon as the article gets published online, Louis makes Liam and the lads read it, biting on his thumb and scratching up the corner of the couch with his toenails while they do so. Once done, they all look up at him, and just smile.

“Jesus, mate,” Zayn says, “this is sick.”

“Yeah,” Liam exclaims, “although I might sue you for semi-plagiarizing some of my statements, if that’s a thing you can do.”

“Understandable.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” Niall says, “how long did you suck this guy off in order for him to save your entire reputation like this?”

 

 

*

 

His family text him too, and his manager calls, of course, everyone’s happy that Louis managed to pull the first breaking of the news off as eloquently as he did. Everyone’s proud of him and yeah, Louis’ sort of proud of himself too. Colin calls him as well, praising him and thanking him for not painting him as a random spontaneous psychopath just to save face.

Of course, Louis can’t know the full consequences of his divorce yet, and he gets a million calls and offers to be on shows that he has to carefully weed through so as not to set himself up for certain public humiliation.

One offer in particular, though, he says yes to without a moment’s hesitation.

“I got the flat!” he screams through the lad’s flat, “lad’s, I got the flat, I got the flat, I’m moving out of this stinkhole!”

“Wha’?” Zayn rasps, muffled halfway into the mouth of his bong.

“The flat I made a bid on!” Louis cheers, jumping around the flat and making Liam groan angrily on his way out of the bedroom, “the one just round the corner! I get to mooooooooove!” he sings, reaching such a perfect high-note that he almost considers signing himself up for the X Factor for an insane second before he comes back to reality and says, after a cough, “no offense, guys. I’d just like not to have to crawl up a ladder every time I go to bed, you know?”

“Offense taken,” Niall says from the kitchen, “that ladder has a name and you haven’t even bothered to get to know it,” he faux-cries, “you just step all over her.”

“Okay,” Louis says, then turns to Liam instead, “I can move in in less than a month. I just got the call. Isn’t it brilliant?”

“Yes,” Liam grumbles, “maybe I’ll finally get to sleep again.”

“Never, I’ll be close enough that you’ll still hear me talking to myself,” Louis assures him, before he spins on his heel and climbs the ladder again to call up Lottie.

He throws himself onto his belly on the mattress upstairs, picks up his phone and right then, of course, an unknown person calls him up. It could be any number of leeches wanting a statement out of him while he’s still sort of relevant-ish, it could be one of those idiotic twelve-year-old “haters” he’s acquired lately, it could be a flattering, albeit slightly terrifying call from an over-dedicated reader who’s somehow got hold of his cell.

It could be any sort of person that Louis has no reason to pick up on, but, on the odd chance that it’s something to do with his new flat, Louis picks up.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” is the one word, the one single syllable-word, one little crackly-lined drawl, that makes Louis’ heart leap into his throat. “S’Harry.”

Despite being stuck up on his throat, his heart is somehow also managing to beat like a fucking heavy-metal drumset against his rib-cage. “You’re—” he rasps, “what, you, ehm—”

“I was just calling cause, uhm,” Harry says hesitantly, the low rumble of his voice making Louis’ neck prickle, “I read your article on the, uhm… line. Online.”

“Oh.” Somehow, the thought of Harry having internet while on tour didn’t occur to him. He’s been following Harry closely there, but he never considered the fact that Harry might’ve followed him back. “Okay. What’d you think?”

“Amazing,” Harry says, and doesn’t mention anything about the content.

He isn’t surprised about the divorce,. Liam must’ve told him, then. It isn’t that Louis didn’t know that the lads still kept in as much contact as tour allowed for Harry to, it’s just that they’ve had a silent agreement not to speak of him. Zayn and Niall must’ve either picked up on the vibe, known about Harry and Louis already or, most likely because he can’t keep a lie to save his life, Liam told them. So, no one’s been talking much about Harry. At least not in front of Louis. Louis had almost begun to believe that he never actually knew Harry Styles in any other way than his fans do.

“Thank you,” Louis says, “thanks, I— thank you.”

“Are you all right?” His voice is softer, even if he’s trying not to make it so.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Louis says, “I’m good, Harry, I… How are you, by the way? How are you, how is tour?”

“Great,” Harry says, “but it’s ending in a week. I’m coming back to England.”

Right. Louis hadn’t actually looked at the schedule. What he’d devoted the majority of his attention to was the grainy pictures caught of Harry leaving clubs and entering tinted-windowed cabs with various giraffe-legged models and socialites. There’s been one in particular, a white-haired Norwegian cunt who’s been clinging onto Harry’s arm quite a lot lately.

“Right, so…” Louis says, realising nobody’s said anything in a minute, “so, you’re going back to England? Holmes Chapel or?” _Taking the girlfriend with you back to meet mum, or?_

“Well, yeah, I’m going home for a week,” Harry says, “but after that I think I’ll, like, hang in London for while.”

“Really?” At the lad’s flat? Fuck. God. No. Yes. Please—

“At my house. You should come by,” Harry says. Oh. “In a few weeks when I’m back there. I’ve had it painted and furnished and that. I’ve been staying there when we’ve had some time between gigs and stuff.”

Right. It’s a fight to control his breathing. “Yeah, I’ll—”

“I mean, you could bring the other lads too, if you wanted.”

Oh. And he hates the way that makes his heart sink. He’s the one who never said ‘I love you’ back. He’s the one who never called. He’s the one who didn’t leave his husband. He’s the one who chose, by not doing anything at all, that they weren’t going to be anything. That Harry would, should and did move on.

“Yeah,” he says, “text me when you’re around, we’ll figure something out,” he says, and when Harry doesn’t reply for a painful second, starts to ramble; “so, ehm, what are you— how are you feeling, then about, uhm… tour must’ve been—”

There’s a bark in the background on Harry’s end. “Okay,” he says, “okay, I’ll, ehm— s’good to hear you’re allright, Lou. Been too long,” he says, in the way he used to say it back before they ever turned into anything more. Back when they were just acquaintances, forced to go up and greet each other at social events thrown by people they _actually_ wanted to be around.

It hurts much worse than anything that ended a whole year ago ever should.

“See you, Harry. Glad you called.”

“Yeah, I— yeah, bye.”

And so Louis drops his phone and then his face, into the mattress.


	23. Chapter 23

Two months. Two full months pass before Louis sees Harry. And then it isn’t even Harry’s choice.

It’s a Friday night and Louis and the lads are sitting in a dimly-lit corner-booth at the dingy pub situated four stories below Louis’ new flat. Louis’ on his third pint, just reached the part of his buzz where he’s beginning to itch to get out of his seat.

“Lads,” he shouts, interrupting a rather uninteresting golf-discussion. Niall grumbles, but both Liam and Zayn look as though they’ve just been saved from certain death by boredom. “Anyone got a good party?”

“Hm,” Niall mutters, pulling his phone out, “let me work my magic.”

Five minutes and a lot of texting around later, Niall’s got hold of a big house-party close by. They drink up, cram themselves into Niall’s little green hatchback, Liam taking the wheel since he’s sober at the moment, scared straight after watching a young man his own age die from alcohol-poisoning on his night-shift two weeks ago.

It isn’t until they’re turning down the street of the houseparty that Niall pipes up. “By the way, it’s at Harry’s place,” he slurs from the passenger-seat, having had quite a bit more to drink than everyone else at the pub - _it’s, it’szz, it’s cause I’m Irish, guys, three pints to yousz is the equivalent of like, like, one pint to me_ , “you’re not bothered about… whatever anymore, are you, Lou?”

Louis can feel Zayn’s head turn to watch him, much too quiet, much too intent. “No,” he says, “no, of course not, s’been a bloody year since I’ve seen him.”

“Great!” Niall yells, just as they pull up in front of the big brick-fenced building, music blasting down the street. “Then let’s parteeeey.”

He jumps out of the car, Zayn following.

“I’ve gotta find parking,” Liam says, just as Niall gets someone in the doorphone to open the gates and they’re faced with a load of stiletto-stumbling, bright-coloured faux fur-coat-wearing hipsters smoking and chatting between cars in the fully occupied parking space, “you wanna drive around with me, Lou?”

Louis nods, any buzz he had going now replaced by sheer anxiety at the thought of tagging along when he doesn’t even think Harry wants him in his house. Louis texted him at the date he said he’d be off tour, just congratulating him on getting through the stress of it all, but he received no response. That was two months minus a week ago and Louis’ pretty certain Harry wants nothing to do with him.

So, he must still be a bit drunk. Since he’s here still. Or maybe the need to see Harry, however much it terrifies him, still takes precedence over anything else.

“You don’t have to go in, you know,” Liam still has the stupid concerned nerve to say, when after circling round the neighbourhood for ten minutes, he’s finally found a spot, “I can drive you home and just go back by myself, if you want.”

“No, I—”

“Mate, you don’t have to explain. I won’t ask you why or how badly or anything,” Liam says, smiling softly, “I’ll just drive you home and we’ll not talk about it ever again if you don’t want. We’ll just tell the lads you got a head-ache and that’ll be it.”

Louis smiles, sighing at the same time. He does have the best friends in the world. “It’s all right,” he says, because he knows that if Liam drives off now, he won’t go back to the party on his own after, he’ll just end up going home and spending the night watching telly and eating cake, “let’s go in, mate. If they’re all pricks in there, we’ll just cling to each other. Get ourselves pissed off our heads.”

“That sounds like a plan,” Liam says, when he reaches round to Louis outside the car and they start making their way back toward Harry’s house, “except for the pissed-part. I’m not drinking, remember?”

“Oh yeah, I forgot you’re an alcoholic in recovery,” Louis snorts, “seriously, mate, you can have a drink, don’t be so scared.”

“Louis, I literally watched a guy _die_ because he—”

“Because he drank an entire bottle of absinthe in one go to impress his mates,” Louis reminds him, “that’s not the consequence of a regular night out on the piss. That’s just natural selection.”

They reach the gates, which have closed again now, and Liam makes his way over to the doorphone while muttering, “but I’m the designated driver, too.”

“Okay, yeah,” Louis concedes, “but you can have a smoke and a juice box, then.”

“Sure,” Liam says, just before the gates open again.

Louis frowns. “Did you even press anything?”

Liam shakes his head.

They jump aside when a car comes driving out of the gates, then quickly run inside before they close again.

“Wasn’t that Nick Grimshaw?” Liam asks as they walk round a group of drunken models, “in the driver’s eat. The radiohost. I swear it was Nick Grimshaw.”

“No, Nick Grimshaw isn’t allowed to drive,” Louis replies, “his forehead’s much too shiny. Creates this mirror effect for other drivers. Very dangerous.”

“On second thought, maybe I should drink,” Liam says as he presses the doorbell and Louis’ stomach clenches up even worse, “just to cope with your terrible sense of humour.”

Louis snorts a laugh, and then the front door opens.

A leggy woman in a silky white button-down, waist-high black cigarette-trousers and stiletto’s opens the door. She’s got her paperwhite hair up in a clip, long silvery earrings dangling down to her shoulders and her heart-shaped mouth painted crimson.

“Heja,” she says in an odd way, politely extending a hand for them as if she hasn’t got a house full of sloppy-drunk socialites right behind her, “you are?”

“Liam,” Liam says, shaking her hand, and Louis does the same, confusedly.

For a wild second he fears they’ve got the wrong house or something, but then she smiles and says, “you’re friends of Harry’s, ja?”

“Ja,” Louis echoes, “friends of Harry’s.”

“Ah, ja, Louis, fra den, eh… you wrote that book, ja?” she says in whatever accent it is that she’s got, “I’m Mathilde.”

And yeah, Louis thinks, just as it clicks. He thought she looked familiar.

She beckons them inside, then quickly gives up on trying to shout smalltalk over the thumping music and the drunken guests constantly bumping into them and grabbing her to talk or hug or dance. The last Louis sees of her is someone pulling her into another room by the wrist, shouting something about body-shots.

Louis stands, staring blankly at the door that she disappeared through, for a while.

“Mate,” Liam says, puffing his arm, “you all right?”

“Yeah, I— I’ve just got to find the loo,” Louis mutters, and doesn’t let Liam catch his eye to give him another one of those _poor little Louis_ -looks he’s so fond of.

He shoves past swaying Fedora-wearer’s and gets stepped over the toes by deathweapon stiletto-heels several times. He walks in circles, gets tackled into a hug by Niall, who’s got red wine stained down the front of his t-shirt, keeps his head down so as not to randomly look up and see Harry locking lips with Mathilde, and then finally, _finally_ , finds a loo.

It’s locked, of course, so he stands back against the wall beside it, pulling his phone out so as not to look as much like a loser as he feels inside. He shouldn’t be here. Harry doesn’t want him here, Louis doesn’t want to be here. He should just go.

The door to the loo opens. Louis’ heart stills in his chest.

“Oh,” Harry’s mouth says, as he nearly jumps at the look of Louis, “shit,” Louis thinks he says too, but he can’t be sure over the deafeningly loud music. He’s happy it’s there, though. Otherwise he’s pretty damn certain Harry would’ve been able to hear just how hard his heart, after ten seconds on hiatus, is now jackhammering his ribcage.

He shouldn’t be here. He really shouldn’t be here.

“Hi,” he shouts, just as the music cuts off. Several people turn their heads at him, but they’re all blurry-eyed and laughing and they don’t really see him.

Harry doesn’t look blurry-eyed. Maybe a little fuzzy, lips redwine-stained, cheeks a little flushed, but he’s all there. He’s staring intently down at Louis, jaw set hard. His hair’s been chopped a bit shorter than it was last Louis saw him, thicker and bouncier, swept in a deep sidepart, tips just brushing his shoulders. Everything else about him’s the same; worn black jeans, threadbare white t-shirt, a few million rings on his fingers, three different necklaces round his neck.

He looks so good Louis wants to cry.

They’ve been standing across from each other, just staring, for what has to have been a full minute, when Harry screams; “didn’t you need the loo?”

“No,” Louis screams back, “just checking my phone by the wall!”

Harry frowns, probably not hearing much else than the _no_ , but he nods like it doesn’t matter. They stand for another moment, just staring. Harry’s eyes aren’t readable, they aren’t like they were last Louis saw him, so open, earnest, vulnerable. Now they’re firm, darkened, looking at Louis like he’s a pestilence, like he doesn’t understand why the fuck he’s here. Louis doesn’t blame him; why the _fuck_ didn’t he take Liam’s offer? He could’ve been home in bed by now, snuggled up with a bottle of wine and Netflix on his iPad.

He could’ve been anywhere but here.

“Sorry, I’m, eh—” he begins to shout, then takes advantage of the noise-level in here, pretending as though the last of his sentence just drowned in the bass.

He shoves himself through the crowd, but this house is big and he’s never ever been inside it before, and there are too many people, none of them standing upright, all of them taller than himself or at least high-heeling themselves enough to be so, and he comes up for air by a staircase instead of an exit. There’s a group of three people sharing a bottle of champagne a few steps up, but other than that the staircase is a safe haven. He clings to the bottom of the railing, trying to steady his heart, his head.

So.

He’s been here for less than ten minutes and he’s discovered two things; a) it _was_ , after all, possible for Harry to become even better looking than he already was and b) the white-haired Norwegian cunt who’s been clinging to him in photo’s outside clubs and smoothie-bars is _not_ just a casual fling, but in fact someone non-casual enough that she opens Harry’s fucking door for him. Fuck, he needs a drink.

“Hey, mate, can I have a swig?” he shouts to one of the guys sitting on the staircase.

They laugh and give him the champagne-bottle, but their smiles fade off a little when he hands it back, empty. He can’t really bring himself to care.

Mathilde. Mathilde, what a stupid name. And why does Harry insist on only dating people with BMI’s no higher than 17, what is the fucking point of fucking a fucking skeleton - god, he’s ranting. The champagne still sits sweet on his tongue, the liquid fighting his stomach. He swallows hard to prevent puking. It’ll settle there in a second, it’ll erase his entire memory, it’ll - hopefully - erase this terrible, terrible feeling that’s spread itself in his chest.

Someone, who’s been sliding up against the wall - which is a smarter thing to do than to torpedo straight through the heart of the party like Louis did because he’s a fucking idiot - taps him on the shoulder.

He turns. It’s Harry. Of course it is.

He begins to lean into Louis’ ear and Louis sucks in a breath and holds it. “Why are you here?” Harry yells into his ear, lip soft as they brush against him, breath hot and damp.

Louis looks up at him, finds no trace of curiosity, familiarity or even just politeness. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt more like shrinking up and disappearing in his life.

“Niall brought me,” is what he yells into Harry’s ear, quickly pulling away, looking away. He can’t stand looking at Harry. Not when every time he does, he’s reminded exactly how much no one, not even himself, want him to be here.

Harry nods, a crease formed between his brows. It could be there out of concentration, out of trying to process Louis’ words. It probably isn’t. It’s probably just irritation. He leans in again. “Did you get a haircut?”

Louis blinks, because, well— he hadn’t expected that. He pushes awkwardly at his fringe, nodding. “Just a bit shorter than usual!” he screams.

He isn’t sure whether Harry hears that or not, but when he tips in again, he tells Louis, “nice!”

Louis smiles. Harry keeps staring at him. He scratches at his own skin as it starts to itch at the attention, then tilts up on his toes to get Harry’s ear again. This time he forgets to hold his breath. This time he smells Harry.

He whines into Harry’s neck, high-pitched and pathetic, hand flying up to clutch at the front of his t-shirt.

“What?” Harry shouts against his cheek, but he’s clasping Louis’ wrist at the same time, digging his fingers in hard. “Louis.”

“Yeah,” Louis rasps, fumbling in his head and then blurting out, “you furnished the house. I like it.”

Harry lets out a stuttering breath against Louis’ neck, voice rough when he replies; “thanks. Have you seen the second floor?”

Louis finally finds it in himself to tip back down on flat feet, fixing his fringe and palming his hot-flushed cheeks for a second before he looks up and shakes his head at Harry.

There’s a vein in Harry’s forehead protruding now, an angry twitch in his nostrils.

Louis’ still holding onto his shirt. Harry’s still holding onto his wrist. _You don’t have to let go_ , Louis wants to say, _you don’t ever have to let go again_.

But, a second later, Harry does. He moves Louis’ hand off of himself, then points toward the staircase. He starts to walk before Louis, throwing a glance over his shoulder and nodding for him to follow.

Louis does without hesitation.

They walk around the group on the staircase, Louis three steps below Harry, watching his long slim legs in impossibly tight jeans, label of his Calvin’s peaking out above them, his strong tatted arms dangling down his sides. His hands, fisted tight at his sides.

They reach the top of the stairs and are stood in a long hall with smooth light wooden floors and white walls. There are framed photo’s hanging between the doors, ones of Gemma, Anne, Des, the band, random black and white ones taken round the world, probably by Harry himself, probably on tour. At the end of the hall, he’s fitted a vintage-looking red velvet couch.

“Nice couch,” Louis says as he walks toward it, just to say something. Once he speaks, he realises just how much quieter it is up here. It’s as though people aren’t allowed up here or something, as if they’ve all received some sort of memo that it’s a no-go zone. Maybe they have. Louis wouldn’t know. He wasn’t actually invited.

“Thanks,” Harry says from behind him, “found it in an antique shop in SoHo.”

Louis smiles to himself, sitting down and watching his finger glide around the fabric, brushing it darker and then lighter again. “Of course you did,” he says, “that’s such a you-thing to do.”

Harry doesn’t reply.

After a moment, Louis turns just to check that he hasn’t walked off. He hasn’t. He’s just standing back against a bare spot of wall, arms crossed over his chest, eyes trained on Louis. The look in them scares Louis a little.

He scratches at his own thigh. “So, did you want to show me around up here or—”  

“Why are you here?”

Louis frowns, throat going dry. “What do you mean, I told you, I— Niall brought me. Along.”

“Why,” Harry says, slow, firm, brows raising, “are you here, Louis?”

“I, mean I,” Louis fumbles, eyes flicking down, chest tightening, “you said I should come by. On the phone. I didn’t think it’d be an issue.”

Louis’ eyes still at Harry’s unmoving feet. The party’s still going on downstairs, but up here it’s quiet. So terribly quiet.

When Harry hasn’t said anything for what feels like five full minutes, Louis wills himself to look up.

Harry’ expression is what it was before, bored, joyless, blank. “Do you know what this party is?” he asks after a moment, voice dull.

“No.”

“It’s in celebration of something,” Harry drawls, uncrossing his arms only to crack his knuckles and then recross them again, “did you meet her?”

“Yeah,” Louis breathes, “I met her.”

“She moved in. Here,” Harry says, casual, nonchalant, as if it’s nothing, as if it isn’t boring a knife directly through Louis’ chest and twisting it, “that’s what we’re all celebrating.”

“Oh,” Louis says, feeling stupid. Feeling sick. “I didn’t know that.”

“No,” Harry snorts, shaking his head, dropping his gaze to pick at his ship tattoo, thick hair bouncing out to cover half his face, “no, of course you didn’t.”

So. Not just open-his-door-for-him-serious. Moving-in-together-serious. Louis doesn’t think anyone’s ever been serious enough for that before. Harry stays with people, sure, sometimes for months on end, but he never moves in with anyone. He never commits himself like that. Now he has, apparently, now he’s met someone new and decided on them after less than half a year together. She must be something. Or maybe he’s just ready now. Maybe he was a year ago, too, when Louis wasn’t.

Maybe Louis should just let him be happy.

But, oh. He’s selfish. “Are you in love with her?”

Harry’s eyes snap up. He tucks his hair behind his ear, revealing a deep furrow of his brows. His dark eyes glide down Louis, painfully slow, and all the way up again before he frees his bottom lip from the grip of his teeth and replies with; “what the fuck do you want from me, Louis?”

It isn’t aggressive. It isn’t genuinely curious either. It’s just there, calm, low, the most humiliating mix of mild irriatation and boredom.

Louis should go. He really should go.

He gets up. “Harry,” he says, voice coming out whimpery, pleading, walls sailing a bit as he starts to walk.

“Yeah, that’s my name,” Harry says, not backing up when Louis comes close enough to smell, not moving in either. His arms tighten over his chest, nostrils flare, but his gaze stays the same. Right there on Louis’. “What do you want?”

There’s a song on downstairs, one of Harry’s own. A loud one. There’s a party going on, celebrating the fact that Harry’s finally found someone worth settling on, someone who he’ll treat a bit more seriously than everyone he has before. There’s a girl down there who no doubt loves him.

And then there’s the two of them, right now, close enough that it hurts not to give in to how good Harry smells. There’s Harry, looking down at him coldly, face not moving a muscle, and Louis, stupidly contemplating whether saying _I still love you_ would be an all right thing to do. Now. After all the chances he’s had.

He looks up again and Harry swallows, adam's apple bobbing hard, and Louis does too, and Harry’s close enough to tip up and kiss, and Louis asks; “you’re not in love with her, are you?”

And Harry looks at him for three full seconds, not saying a word, then turns around and walks away.

“Harry!” Louis yells.

Harry flips him off over the shoulder and Louis’ so stuck in his spot that by the time he finally starts running after Harry, he’s far out of reach. He’s disappeared in the blend of bodies when Louis gets to the top of the stairway.

 

*

 

He doesn’t go looking for Liam before he leaves. In fact, he actively avoids him when he notices him while making his way toward the front door again. If Liam sees him leaving, or just sees him at all, he’ll instantly sense that something’s off, he’ll instantly insist on driving Louis home. He’ll say he was bored anyway, which may or may not be true, but on the chance that it isn’t, Louis doesn’t want to risk spoiling his night. It isn’t Liam’s fault that Louis’ a fucking idiot.

As he walks outside, he finds Harry again. He’s standing with a group of people, one of them being Mathilde, one arm hooked loosely around her shoulders from behind. Louis stumbles toward the gates, but then has no idea how to leave this entrapment, and of course, that’s when Mathilde sees him struggling and runs over, the sweet hostess that she is, and helps him out. He wants to die.

Once he’s out, he starts walking. Marching. Running. He just needs to get away from there.

He gets a taxi to pick him up at a nearby pub and doesn’t text Liam and the lads that he’s left the party before he’s locked himself into the safety of his stairway. He takes the stairs instead of the lift because he doesn’t want to stand alone staring himself in the eye, lit up and surrounded by mirrors. He takes two or three steps at a time, wanting to lock himself inside his flat soon as possible, wanting to never run into anyone ever.

Once he does and he’s closed the door behind himself, he flicks on the lights in the hall, takes one step toward the coat-rag and then vomits champagne all the way down his front.

He curses and shouts at himself like a child, rips off his clothes and throws them on the floor in the corner, flicks on the shower and then jumps under scolding hot water by drunken accident. He jumps out again, fixes the temperature, jumps in again and then manages to wash without killing himself in the process.

It’s when he’s flicked off the faucet that he realises that what he’d passed off as alcohol-induced tinnitus has been the doorphone screaming non-stop for five minutes straight.

“Fuck, wait, fuck,” he hisses at no-one, slinging a towel round his waist, nearly slipping on the un-sweeped tiles, and then stumbling out into the hall again. “Are you fucking mental?!” he shouts into the phone.

“Sorry,” comes the hoarse voice on the other end.

And— when the sound of Harry’s voice will stop having the effect on him that it does, he doesn’t know. “What are you doing here?” Louis asks, voice a million times softer, thinner, than a second ago, “how’d you know where I live?”

“Niall,” Harry replies, “drunk as shit, told me he liked to wear his girlfriend’s knickers too.”

A squeaky laugh jumps out of Louis’ throat. “God, I need to write that down so I don’t forget, that’s gold.”

“Let me up.”

Oh. Louis stifles his urge to instantly obey Harry’s every demand without question. “Why are you here?”

“Do you want me to go?”

“No,” Louis exclaims, much too quick. But it’s true.

“Then let me up.”

He doesn’t hesitate this time. If Harry left now and it was Louis’ fault, again, he thinks he’d die.

He thinks he’ll die anyway, standing alone in the hall while he waits for Harry to make it up and knock his door.

When he does, Louis’ heart’s beating so fast the walls have started blurring around him again.

He opens the door to a Harry bearing nothing but keys and phone, dressed like before, but coming apart at the edges. Some of his hair clings to his face, the rest bops wildly around it, messed up like he hasn’t stopped ripping his fingers through it all night. His lips are apart, blood-red and wrecked from getting bitten and licked and bitten some more. Maybe kissing. Her.

“What are you doing here?”

“Do you want me to leave?” Harry asks, eyes as cold as they were before, despite the rest of his face looking something so vulnerable.

“No,” Louis says, stumbling backwards when Harry walks forward.

“Okay,” Harry says, and then marches in and attacks Louis’ neck. Louis whines embarrassingly and Harry grabs him round the waist, sniffs him and pushes until Louis’ backed up against a wall and Harry’s just biting him, frantically un-tying his towel, roughly grabbing at his arse, fingers prodding at his wettening hole.

“What are you doing?” Louis pants despite his body responding to Harry as though it’s been craving him like air, as though it’s been suffocating for over a fucking year, “what are you— what is, I—”

Harry presses up against his thigh, hard through his jeans. “Do you not want this?”

“Yes, but I—”

“Do you want me to leave?”

“No.”

“Okay,” Harry says, turning him around against the wall and pressing up against his backside, “so please,” he breathes against the nape of Louis’ neck, “shut the fuck up and let me have this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, I have nothing against Norwegians :)
> 
> also, yes, i know it's pretty unrealistic that mathilde could hear the doorbell with the music being so loud, but.... lets just call it artistic license, eh? :'D


	24. Chapter 24

When they finish, they’re lying on the rug in the middle of the hall, Louis on his back, Harry crouched between his legs. Louis’ chest is rising and falling rapidly, his skin hot and prickly from how good it was to have Harry inside him again, how much he’d needed him close like that, even if they didn’t so much as kiss, even if Harry didn’t so much as try to knot him.

He lies flat there, panting hard, until he hears Harry moving around and getting up.

He wipes the come-shot Harry planted on his face out of his eyes and opens them. Harry’s standing up now, buckling up his belt.

“What are you doing?”

“What do you mean?” he asks, pushing his sweat-slick hair back from his face and looking down at Louis, “doing my belt.”

“Yeah, but—” Louis pulls himself up to sit on his bare, sorefucked arse, “are you leaving?”

“Yeah.” Harry finishes with the belt, then looks round the room and bends down to pick up his phone and keys. “I’ve got to get back.”

“You literally _just_ pulled out of me,” Louis says, stretching back to pull in the towel he had around him before, and cover himself. 

“I have to get back or she’ll notice I’ve been gone,” Harry says.

He stops at the door, looking down at Louis as if waiting for something. There’s come in Louis’ hair, there’s come dripping down his chin, his chest. There’s a terrible ache in his arse from being breached for the first time in a year and then fucked so frenziedly he couldn’t catch his breath. There’s a little voice in the back of his head, the center of his chest, screaming for him to scream for Harry to stay. _Stay, stay, stay. Please, stay the night._

“Do you do this often?” is what he ends up saying, “cheat on her?”

“No,” Harry mutters, actively avoiding Louis’ gaze, “I’m gonna go,” he says, turning around, “you all right?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

And then he leaves. Just like that.

 

*

 

Louis doesn’t tell anyone. He washes himself clean and does his job like he usually does and sees all the people he usually does and doesn’t tell anyone about what happened at all, not even Liam. After a week or so, it’s almost as though it really never did happen.

Then, Friday night, when he’s been out for a bit and then come home early because the party was dull and all the men looked good, but not as good as Harry, he gets a text.

**Harry -  im close by**

Nothing more, nothing less.

It’s half past twelve and Louis’ standing in his little yellow kitchen, pulling a tray of eggs from his fridge to see if there’s enough to make himself a midnight fry-up before bed. And now the only thing he can think of is that he’s been waiting impatiently for Harry to text since last they saw each other, however much he’s tried to convince himself he couldn’t care less, he’s been waiting and waiting and wanting, so terribly.

He texts back **I** **m home**.

Five minutes later, his doorphone buzzes.

It continues like that for a while. They don’t talk in the daytime, never before eight pm. And then, when Louis’ in the middle of doing nothing at all, home alone like he finds himself to be more and more the longer they keep at it, Harry texts him. **Are u home?** or **can I come by?** or **Im outside** , and Louis tells him yes, always yes. They chat for a few minutes, always smalltalk, always pointless, and then one of them comes close enough to sniff and then they end up in bed.

Afterwards, Harry leaves. Always leaves, right afterwards.

Louis doesn’t say much to it, not too directly anyway. Not enough that Harry actually has to answer to anything. Louis knows why he’s going, and where he’s headed back to. Louis knows he has no say in this because he did the same to Harry, over and over and over again. He had a year. He had an entire year and he never so much as texted. The fact that Harry’s coming round to fuck now feels too fragile, too good to let go of, because he has no right to ask for more, because he’s afraid that if he does he’ll lose every last bit of what he gets.

It’s hard, though. Lying in bed and saying nothing, face-down while he listens to the clatter of Harry’s belt buckle, face-up while he watches Harry button up the shirt Louis ripped right off of him twenty minutes before.

They’re seeing each other two to three times a week now, but they’re talking just as little as they were when Harry was somewhere across the Atlantic.

 

*

 

About a month into whatever it is they can’t keep doing, it gets to be too much, though. It gets to be much too much. 

“Where do you want me to come,” Harry’s saying, inside of Louis a Wednesday evening, somewhere between nine and eleven pm. Maybe later, Louis isn’t sure. He tends to lose track of time on the nights Harry comes over. 

“Stomach,” Louis breathes out. There’s already a pool of his own come there and he’s too tired to have to wash anything out of his hair, which Harry seems to be so fond of lathering in his own personal shampoo.

“Okay, I’m— okay, gimme a sec, I—” Harry babbles, getting in as many frantic little thrusts as he can before he has to pull out, “I— ah, ah… Ah, _fuck_ , aah...” he lifts from his elbows and up onto his palms, dropping his head. “Oh no. Oh, no, no, no...”

“Did you just—”

“Fuck,” Harry hisses, and then tries to pull back, causing them both to wince and groan out loud.

He tries again anyway, like he’s learned nothing at all, not a second ago and not in biology at school, so Louis slaps at his chest.

“Stop!” he exclaims, sliding the hand up to grab Harry by the side of the face, dig his thumb into his jaw and tilt his head to gain some eye-contact, “you can’t do anything now, it’s too late, you fucking idiot.”

Harry stares at him for a few seconds, defiant like he wants to disprove that, but then he gives up after a bit. “Fuck,” he breathes, pushing his long hair back. It falls right back down into his face. “Where’s my—”

Louis throws a hand out of and finds the hairband he had in when he came. “Here.”

“Oh,” Harry says, staring at it for a moment before dipping down and nipping it out of Louis’ hand by his teeth.

He proceeds to awkwardly budge himself up in a seated position, thighs bracing Louis’ arse, Louis’ legs hooked over his shoulders, and smooths his hair back. There’s a lovebite just at the underside of his jaw, red and fresh, made by Louis. He feels so bitterly proud, looking at it.

“I meant my phone, though,” Harry says after fixing his hair up in a bun and smoothing as many sweaty little curls back with it.

“What?”

“Not the hairband. Just before.”

“What?”

Harry shakes his head, eyes gliding over to the night stand. “Never mind.” He locks one arm around both Louis’ legs, holding them close to himself as he strains to stretch over and pick up his phone without irritating their joint parts even further. “God,” he says, checking the display, “s’half past eleven.”

“Past your bedtime?” Louis snorts, closing his eyes before Harry can look at him and see just how unfunny he feels inside.

Harry gives out a long sigh, resting his mouth on one of Louis’ knees. “If we don’t move too much and swell anything up further, we’ll disentangle soon.”

Louis nods. He hates this. He hates himself.

“You all right?” Harry asks after a moment, “you’re not— does it hurt or anything? That I’m sitting up like this?”

A little. More of a pinch than a pain, though. He’d rather this than force Harry to lie down close with him when all he wants is to be pulling on his coat right now. “No, it’s fine. Just— don’t move further back.”

“No,” Harry says, nosetip rubbing into Louis’ knee, soft lips too. It’s not a kiss, or a bit of affection. It’s accidental, and probably just a result of Harry’s nose itching. Louis takes it, anyway. It’s the most he’s gotten in a long while.

At some point, Harry takes a bit of care, though. Whether it’s just because he’s tired of staring at a puddle of Louis’ come, Louis doesn’t know, but it’s helpful anyway. He finds a box of Kleenex in Louis’ second nightstand-drawer and wipes him clean.

Once he’s done with the stomach, though, he begins to wipe his own forehead too, cheeks and chest and pits.

“Think there’s a deo in there too,” Louis mutters.

Harry stills. “Wha’?”

“There’s a deo,” Louis replies dryly, opening his drooping eyes again, “in the nightstand. Spray one. Cover the smell of me.”

“Oh, it’s all right, I have stuff my car,” Harry replies, and Louis’ face falls. Harry’s does too, once he realises what he’s just blurted out. “I mean, I— I’ve always kept spray and a spare shirt if—”  

Louis laughs. Dry and sharp against his throat, the saddest sound in the world, Louis laughs. “This is pathetic,” he says to his nightstand lamp, having turned his face in the pillow. “This is fucking _pathetic_.”

“I didn’t mean that I keep like— I’m not like some infidelity-ninja, I don’t—”  

“Save it. It’s fine. I get it. I’ve no right to… it’s fine,” Louis cuts him off, “bathe yourself in fucking bleach to rid the smell of me, I don’t care.”

Harry sighs exasperatedly. “I didn’t mean it like that. And you’re not pathetic,” he murmurs.

“I know I’m not,” Louis replies, looking back up at him, “I know I’m not pathetic, I’m just saying that this is.” He gestures between them, perhaps a bit manically, “ _this_ is fucking pathetic. You, coming here and me, lying down, and her, not knowing shit, and, and— and it’s fucking pathetic. It’s fucking shit, you’re a fucking arsehole.”

Harry blinks slowly. “Do you want me to stop coming here?”

“I want—”

“What do you want? What do you want, then, Louis? Because it seemed like you wanted me to fuck you into the mattress ten minutes ago, it seemed like you were more than happy to throw yourself back and spread your legs and then be rid of me once we’d finished this entire past month, that’s what I’ve gotten from you.”

“Fuck you.”

Harry nods down at him, brows arched. “Yeah. Yeah, you’d say that, wouldn’t you...”

“What?” When Harry closes his eyes and relaxes against Louis’ knee, Louis budges the knee around, “what, Harry?”

Harry steadies a big hand under his knee, squeezing hard enough that Louis stills. “You’re just… fuck. I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“Yeah,” Louis says, mock-imitating Harry’s voice, “you’d say that wouldn’t you…”

“Oh, piss off. What do you mean?”

“Just you don’t seem to know much at all lately,” Louis says, slowly, straining not to look away when Harry looks directly down at him, “you don’t know where your phone is,” he says, “you don’t know why you come here to fuck three nights a week when you’ve got a girl at home,” Louis says, and Harry’s brows twitch angrily, “you don’t know whether you’re even in love with her, despite the fact that you’ve invited her to move into your fucking—”

“Shut the fuck up, Louis, shut the _fuck_ up,” Harry speaks through, jarringly hard, and Louis can’t help but flinch.

Harry just stares down at him for a bit, eyes fiery, top lip tucked behind his teeth and nostrils flared. Louis pants unevenly back up at him, chest moving with it.

“Are you in love with her?” he asks, once he’s re-found the nerve, “are you?” he pushes, even as Harry looks seconds from slapping him silent, “just tell me, just tell me you are and I’ll stop asking, I’m not that fucking sensitive, you can—”

“Why does it have to be me?!” Harry screams, right when Louis anticipates a smack.

Louis doesn’t say anything, just lies slack-mouthed, panting, heart thundering in his chest.

“Why?” Harry goes on, weaker, just as aggravated still, “why do I have to be the one to, like— I’ve done that. I’ve put fucking… fucking _everything_ out on the line and you shot me down, didn’t you? You shot me fucking down, so. So you don’t, like— get to make me tell you about my deepest and darkest—”

“But why is it so fucking hard for you to just tell me—”

“Because that’s not really what you’re asking!” Harry puffs violently at a rebellious curl hanging over his face, “you’re not fucking asking me what I feel for her, you’re not fucking curious, you’re— you’re like,” he shakes his head, “what you’re really asking is for me to make you feel a _hundred_ percent fucking certain before you even dare to just dip your toe in and test the water just a little, you— I’m not having it. I’m not doing it. It’s not fair.”

Louis lets a huff of air out through his nostrils, lips pressed together thinly. He wants to say something, anything, but he doesn’t. Everything’s swimming inside himself, _Harry’s_ still inside himself, the knot’s got his feelings running high, got him trapped in that terrible state where he knows, he fucking _knows_ , that his voice is going to crack if he tries to speak.

Harry doesn’t look like he’s in the mood to have a grown man break down crying in front of him right now.

“So, so that’s really not very fair on me,” Harry says after a while of waiting wide-eyed for Louis to respond, “you know. That’s like— that’s like, you’re not even fucking… fucking willing to put any of yourself out there and risk anything. When I was sat in a car a year ago, crying like a fucking idiot, telling a married man I was in love with him. But you’re not even willing to, like—” he shakes his head again, “doesn’t matter. Never mind.”

Harry drops his head to inspect their joint parts again, while Louis begins swallowing and exhaling slowly, trying to find half a proper voice to respond.

Before he gets a chance, Harry’s pulling out. “Okay,” he says, “okay, there, I can… okay.” He sits back and finally lets Louis’ legs drop down. “Okay,” he says again, moving his big hands up Louis’ sweaty thighs, thumbing over his hipbones, “I’m going to go now.”

Louis nods, eyes closed. He’s given up on trying to say anything. He feels rubbed raw inside, small and stupid and breakable. He’s not supposed to be knotted and left. He’s not supposed to be knotted and left, not now, not when he’s so in love he can’t think straight.

He keeps his eyes, mouth and legs closed, soon as Harry crawls out from between them.

“You all right?” he’s asking, while stepping into his trousers, belt clattering as he lifts them. “Lou?”

Louis nods.

“Sure?”

Louis nods again.

“Louis. Lou, just quickly. Look at me. Please.”

Louis opens his eyes.

Harry’s fully dressed now, nice black suit pants and a salmon-coloured shirt. Louis didn’t ask what fancy thing he’d been at.

“You sure you’re all right?” Harry asks.

Louis nods.

“The front door locks automatically when I leave, yeah?”

Louis nods again. Harry nods too. Then he stops pretending to care about his cufflinks and turns around and leaves. Soon as the front door closes, Louis lets himself go.

He’s so stupid. He’s so, so stupid.

He’s lying there on his side, pillow completely soaked around his face, body sore and used and curled up like a baby’s, when the doorbell rings. He lets it ring. It continues to ring. He lets it ring some more. It continues to ring.

He sniffles hard, swipes at his tear-stained cheeks and crawls out of bed. With the sheet wrapped around himself, he pads out into the hall and opens the door.

It’s Harry.

He’s got his back to the door when Louis opens, but turns around quickly, frantically, and says before he even really looks at Louis; “I just have this feeling that you’re not all right and—”

And then he really looks at Louis. And Louis just falls apart.

“Shit, Lou.”

Harry charges back into the flat, and Louis tumbles backwards, tears rolling down his cheeks again. He screws his eyes shut and turns around, walks toward the bedroom again because this is just too much, this has gotten way out of hand and—

Harry slams the front door and then catches him around the waist.

“Hey,” he says, pressing tight around him, mouth against the nape of his neck, “hey, no, it’s okay, it’s okay.”

Louis resists, only for a second, before the smell of the man who just knotted him, the smell of the man that he loves, becomes too overwhelming and he just melts into Harry. Harry’s clawing and grasping at the sheet around Louis, then turning him around, pressing hurt little noises into his skin, licking his cheeks clean of tears, kissing them wet again.

He’s babbling continuously, small and animalistic, and it isn’t until he’s backed Louis into the bedroom and layed him down, following right with, that Louis makes out what he’s saying. _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so, so, so sorry._

And— that’s exactly the moment that it gets to be too fucking much.

“Harry,” Louis says, voice cracking, and he says it again, “Harry,” and pushes at Harry’s chest, “Harry, I—”

“Please,” Harry whimpers, lifting up and bracing himself on his elbows over Louis. His eyes are brimming over too. “I didn’t mean to make you like this, I don’t— I never, never, _ever_ want you to be like this, I want to take care of you, I’m so sorry, I’m such a fucking idiot, I just want—”

“Harry,” Louis says, finally finding something of an all right voice to use, “Harry.”

Harry sniffles, and stops.

Louis smooths his hair back from his face and looks up into his wild green eyes and says; “I’m in love with you.”

“Yeah?” Harry breathes.

It’s quiet around them. Everything’s still, frozen, silent. There’s just the two of them and their eyes, locked.

“I’m in love with you,” Louis half-whispers, “I really am. I’m so sorry. About the— about the timing and everything and… but I just am. I just really, _really_ am. In love with you.”

Harry nods, mouth a twitching mess. “Yeah?” he hiccups.

“Yeah,” Louis swipes his thumbs over the damp undersides of Harry’s eyes, “I hate it when you leave. I miss you all the time. I hate it when you fuck other people, I hate it when you hurt in any way. And I don’t want this— this halfway thing with you. I know my timing’s shit and I’m too little too late and that you’ve got her at home, but—”  

“I’m not,” Harry cuts through, eyes wide, “I’m—” he dips down to lick a stray tear off Louis’ cheek, then says, “I’m not in love with her.”

A shaky breath falls from Louis’ lips. “Why?” he asks, lump in his throat slowly lightening up.

“Because I’m just not.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m just yours. I just am. I can’t seem to fucking help it.”

Louis bites his lip. Harry smiles, wobbly-lipped and teary-eyed and beautiful.

“I’ve got to go,” he says after a long while of just panting, looking at each other, sniffling and chuckling breathily. Louis digs his fingers right into his hair, fists it tightly, like _no, no you most definitely have not_ , “I don’t want to… I don’t want to kiss you anymore when it’s… when it’s not just us. I want it to be right. If you’re saying that you want—”

“I am,” Louis says quickly, “I am, I want everything. I do.”

Harry nods, kissing the inside of each of Louis’ wrists and then looping his fingers around them and gently pressing them down into the mattress. He studies Louis for a moment, then crawls back, gets the duvet they kicked onto the floor earlier and pulls it up. He rolls Louis up like a sausage, then leans down, presses a kiss to his forehead and says, “can you stay here?”

“What?” Louis breathes.

“Just promise me you’ll stay and… I don’t want you to go out when you’re… when you’re like this. I just need to know you’ll stay here. Safe.”

Louis scoffs. Harry frowns at him. Louis grins, a little. “Okay, okay,” he says, “I’ll stay here.”

“Okay,” he kisses Louis’ forehead again, in lieu of the mouth since he’s suddenly become an honest man. Of sorts. “Okay, stay here and I’ll— we’ll talk when I get back here. Stay here. Here.”

“Here,” Louis echoes, and Harry dips down and nips at the side of his smile.

He gets up a moment later, and Louis still feels him all over, still instinctively wants to beg him not to leave at all, jump out of bed and cling to his leg like a child, but he doesn’t. He stays put like he said he would.

“I’m coming back,” Harry says, “when I can. Do you need anything?”

Louis shakes his head.

“Okay. I’m coming back.”

Then he leaves and Louis rolls onto his side, crumbles up in the duvet, in for what’ll feel like the longest wait of his entire life.


	25. Chapter 25

Louis was never good at waiting. Be it waiting at the dentist’s office, waiting for a train, waiting for a public restroom rather than sneak out the back-alley and piss in a bottle, Louis was never good at waiting. But, he doesn’t think he’s ever felt impatience quite like this before. Vibrating under his skin, crawling up his throat, drying out his eyes, gritting up his teeth, clawing up his sheets, terrible, suffocating impatience.

He’s been lying in the same position for an entire hour, begging his body to relieve him by letting him sleep until Harry comes back, when the doorphone finally buzzes.

He nearly knocks his skull on the corner of the nightstand, tumbling out of bed.

The sheet tangles up around his legs, he falls, he gets up again, the doorphone buzzes on, he runs naked out into the hall. “Yes?”

“Hi, I’ve got a pizza-delivery for Louis Tomlinson here.”

And— what? “I haven’t ordered any pizza.”

“Sorry, have I not got Louis Tomlinson’s flat?” the guy says.

“No, you’ve— you’ve got his flat, but you’ve got it wrong still. I’ve ordered no pizza.”

“You’re Louis Tomlinson?” the dope drawls.

“Yes!” Louis hisses, “yes, sorry, yes,” he says, calming himself, “yes, I am, but I’m not— I haven’t ordered pizza.”

There’s a crackling over the line. “Mate, I’ve been sent to deliver to this address to someone named Louis Tomlinson. It’s already been paid for.”

“By who?”

“Look, man, I don’t know, I just bring the pizza. Do you want it or not? It’s free and it’s for you, so.”

Louis bites his lip for a moment, then sighs. It’s Harry. Of course it’s Harry. “Okay, yeah— okay, I’ll buzz you up.”

The delivery turns out to be massive, one little person considered. Three different pizza’s, two different soda’s, a box of fish and chips, an entire box of different sauces and dips, and a stack-load of napkins. He brings it all to bed, munching until his stomach looks as though he’s pregnant — which he might very well be, come to think of it. He considers texting Harry to buy morning after pills on his way back, but quickly thinks better of it; he doesn’t need any interruptions right now. He just needs to get it over with and come back.

 

*

 

Louis wakes the following morning surrounded by pizza-boxes and dip-trays, having dozed off at some point in the early am’s. The first thing he does, before pushing the empty pizzabox off of stomach or wiping the ketchup off of his chin or even stretching, is check his phone.

No new messages. None at all.

Well, none from Harry anyway. He doesn’t know about other’s, doesn’t care about other’s. At least not until Harry comes back. 

The next three hours consist of a never-ending back-and-forth pace between the bedroom and the loo. He pisses, he lies in bed and eats stiff cold pizza, drinks fizzled-out coke and checks his phone every other second, then he pisses again, the comes back to bed, checks his phone once more, checks that his doorphone hasn’t broken, checks his phone once more, checks his phone once more, more, more. Nothing.

So naturally, when, at exactly three minutes past three pm, the doorphone does ring, he almost passes if off as a figment of his wishful imagination. Almost.

“Yes?” he pants, having stumble-run from his bed to the phone, an almost identical scene to that last night. “Harry?”

There’s a bit of screeching around on the other end of the line, and then finally, _finally_ , someone speaks; “no, mate, it’s Liam.”

“Fuck!” Louis blurts out, entire body unclenching and then clenching right back up again, because why the fuck is it taking Harry so long? Why the fuck isn’t he back yet? Not coming back till the morning was forgivable, sure, the girl could’ve been asleep when he came back last night. Waking her up at twelve am just to kick her out would’ve been a little inhumane, Louis can understand. But now it’s afternoon and there’s still no sign of him. How much, really, is there to talk about when you’re ending it with someone?

Well, Louis thinks, it’s Harry breaking up with someone. _Harry_. He could very well have started talking first thing in the early morning and still not gotten round to the point yet.

But, hm.

“Mate?” Liam yells into the doorphone. “Louis! Are you there?”

“Oh.” Louis shakes his head back into the space he’s physically in. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m here. What’s going on, what are you doing here?”

“I was just getting the couch-linen dry-cleaned at that genius place just across your street cause Niall had spilled lotion— and I’m doing air quotes right now, just for the record— all over it and it wouldn’t come off and, yeah. So I thought I might as well stop by and say— why am I talking to your door-thingy? Let me up. ”

Louis stands for a second, unsure of what to do. Could he hang up and blame it on the reception? No, no that wouldn’t work. Could he tell Liam to leave because he’s in heat? Hm, no, Liam keeps better track of these things than Louis does himself. Could he tell Liam the truth? Could he be honest for fucking once and just say that he’s waiting for Harry to - hopefully - come back, and that he’d really rather be alone in his misery?

Nah. Louis buzzes him up. Misery likes company.

Liam comes bearing a bag of fresh-bought knitting gear - yes, _knitting gear_ \- because apparently he tried it out at his gran’s last weekend and it turned out to be the number one most stress relieving activity on the planet.

“Wow, you’ve really gone all in on that whole asexual thing, huh?”

“Well, some kill time by jamming piss-stained bodyparts into shit-stained bodyparts. Other’s are a bit more productive,” Liam says.

“How so?” Louis asks, which is a mistake because next thing he knows he’s got an ugly green home-knitted scarf a la Liam scratching up every bit of his neck.

They end up sitting on Louis’ square grey two-seater couch, his surround-sound system humming cosily around them. Liam knits and tries to force Louis to do so too and has a glass of wine when Louis offers because he recently had a patient who’d never had a drink, smoke or fuck in their life be diagnosed with liver failure so ergo, he’s back on alcohol because somehow that’s logic. Louis doesn’t dig into it. Liam’s drinking, chatting away, not paying too much mind to the fact that Louis isn’t paying mind to anything at all. That the reason Louis can’t figure out how to fucking knit isn’t that he isn’t the best fucking born-talented-without-a-day’s-practice-in-his-life knitter in the world, but that he’s just, well— shaking.

Where the fuck is Harry?

Eventually, though, Liam does knitting-needle him in the flank.

“Ow,” Louis grumbles, rubbing at the stabbed spot, “what was that for?”

“For not having listened to a word I’ve said in the past half hour,” Liam says, and raises his brows at Louis when he snaps his head up and prepares to object. It’s no use. Liam’s sussed him out. “S’it to do with Harry?”

“No,” Louis lies.

“Okay,” Liam pretends to find the answer. He returns to his knitwork, one brow still arched.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Louis kicks him in the shin. “What, Liam?”

“Nothing.”

Louis groans. “Okay, it’s to do with Harry.”

Liam drops knitwork and lifts his head, smiling contentedly. “Thought so.”

“You’re a pest.”

“And you’re too proud for your own good.”

There’s truth to it. But, Louis’ too proud to admit that. “Piss off.”

“Not before you tell me what’s going on that’s made you all— jittery and glazy-eyed like this. Something happen at that party last month? You’ve not been the same since. You’ve turned down two parties and a movie-night for no good reason.”

Louis sighs. “Well,” he says, “well.”

“Well, what?”

“Well, yes, I’ve— I’ve seen him since then. A few times.”

Liam doesn’t look surprised. “How? He’s still with her, you know. Mathilde. If he’s told you otherwise then that’s not true because I’ve seen—”

“No, I know,” Louis says, and Liam’s brows furrow and Louis feels a twist of guilt and disgust with himself. He hasn’t thought much about her. If he had, he’d have ended up making her into a real person, which would’ve then made it impossible for him to live with what he’s been doing. So he hasn’t. “I know he’s still with— or, well. I don’t know anymore. If he is right this very moment.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well…”

Liam’s eyes widen. “What?” he urges, “Lou- _is_.”

“Well, he’s supposed to be ending it with her. Right around now.”

“Her? Mathilde?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Louis says, and then loses the ability the look Liam in the eye, instead blurring him out and focusing on the wall behind him, “ehm… because he’s wanting to, ehm… basically, wanting to be with me. Now. So. Yeah.”

He expects Liam to gasp. He expects Liam to go instantly O-mouthed and teacup-eyed and to ask a million questions. But, Liam just snorts out; “why s’he need to break up with her to do that? Thought you two were into the threesome-thing.”

Louis looks him in the eye again. “No, we’re not,” he says sharply, “I’m not, anyway. And he isn’t really either, I think. It just— it all happened very oddly and timing-wise it was— and you know, but… but, at the end of the day, it’s— we’re really not that exciting, I think. We’re just sort of coming to terms with… being boring monogamists at our cores and… being quite— well. In love, I suppose.”

Liam nods. “Quite in love,” he says, “you are that, then? In love with him?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, without a breath’s hesitation, “yeah. And—” fuck it, then, “and my fat arse is fucked up jittery right now because the fucker said he’d go and end it with her last night when he left and now it’s, what—”

“Nearing five pm.”

Fuck. _Fuck_. “Yeah,” Louis hisses, “and I haven’t even gotten a text. So— so, yeah. So, you know, please don’t give me, like… pathetic poor-Louis eyes if it doesn’t end up happening. If in a week I still haven’t heard from him. Okay? Just, like, _please_ , as my best friend, promise me you’ll— not make it worse on me.”

Liam nods. “Sure, mate,” he says, “but you know, if you’re really stressing out about this, knitting is seriously on of the number-one most—”

“ _Liam_!”

 

*

 

It’s seven pm when Liam leaves. He has a shift that starts at half nine and he tells Louis to text him if he’s still alone when he’s off again and needs an early morning knitting/drinking-buddy.

Soon as Liam’s out the door, Louis runs and checks his phone for the first time in an hour. Nothing. Nothing from Harry at all. There’s something seeping into his bones. There’s something other than utter anxiety in him. He thinks he knows what it is.

He thinks he’s fucking furious.

Why the fuck did he think it would be that easy? Why the fuck did he allow himself to think he could count on that tour-hopping, two-timing, tail-chasing cunt? He’s obviously no more dependable than he’s always been, he’s obviously not half as infatuated with Louis as his words made him out to be, he’s obviously just in love with the chase. He’s in love with the chase, that’s what he is.

That’s all it is. He’s probably felt exactly the same for everyone else he’s ever had in his life as he did for Louis, until he got them fully. And Louis can’t blame him, really. Of course he’s instantaneously bored shitless the second someone confesses their devotion to him. He’s got the entire world begging to suck his cock, why the hell would anyone in particular, and especially someone as not-a-supermodel-turned-actor-turned-incredible-interesting-globetrotter as Louis, mean anything at all to him?

Louis feels stupid. He feels so, so fucking stupid.

He goes to bed alone, just like last night, and the night before and the night before. He goes to bed and then fucks around on his iPad because he realises it’s still only seven pm.

He puts on Titanic just to remind himself that there are men out there even hotter than Harry, men like young Leonardo DiCaprio, and ends up crying like a fucking idiot, not because Jack dies, fuck him, there was more than enough space on that fucking thing Rose was lying on, but because he can’t get out of his own head. He can’t stop missing Harry and hating himself for being stupid enough and _fuck_. Fuck, this is why people stay married even when they’re not in love anymore. It’s much safer, it hurts so much less than getting lied to and left like this.

Fuck, he’s so stupid.

 

*

 

He wakes around ten pm, having apparently managed to doze off after all. His iPad lies on the floor now, with a crack in the corner of the screen that wasn’t there before, and Louis can’t even bring himself to care. He puts it away, rubs at his eyes and then almost resists the urge to check his phone. But then he doesn’t, he checks again, and there’s nothing from Harry, nothing at all.

And, then his doorphone buzzes for the third time since Harry left.

Louis groans loudly, because he knows, he just _knows_ , that it isn’t Harry this time either, and yet he also _knows_ he’s going to feel disappointed about it still, soon as he hears the voice that doesn’t belong to Harry.

He drags himself to the phone in boxers and a stale-smelling green hoodie. “Yes?” he sighs into it.

“Hi.”

And— “what the _fuck_ took you so long?”

“I’m sorry,” Harry replies, voice as exhausted as Louis’ if not more, “but I’m all yours now.”

Louis kills the voice in his head that screams _just let him up, just let him up now, he’s here, he’s here, he’s finally here, never let him leave again_ , and takes a deep breath. His palm is damp against the phone, and he has to hold onto it a little tighter just to keep it from slipping. “Fucking hell, Harry, I’ve been waiting all day.”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry, I— can I come up?”

Louis bites his lip. “I don’t know,” he says after a beat, “I don’t know, I— I was married. I was fuckin’ _married_ and the initial _it’s over_ -talk didn’t take more than an hour. What the fuck have you been doing all day? You been lying round break up-fucking while I’ve been sat stuck in the fuckin’ flat since you said—”

“No, we fucking haven’t Louis, let me up,” Harry hisses, so hard and fast that it screeches against Louis’ ear.

“No,” Louis says, “no, not— what, how’d it take that bloody long—”

“I’ll explain if you let me up, it’s pissing rain out here and your stupid fucking stairway hasn’t got a fucking half-roof over the fucking door, let me the fuck—”

“Stop fucking swearing at me, I’ve been rolling around in my own sweat waiting for you cause you told me to—”

“I didn’t tell you not to fucking shower, Louis, buzz me the _fuck_ up—”

“No.”

“Fuck. _Fuck_!” The phone cuts off.

Louis stands for a moment, panting hard into it. Just before realization and then, inevitably, regret at not being a bit softer, more accommodating, more pathetic, starts to seep in, the phone buzzes again. “What?”

“Let me up.”

“No.”

“Fuck. Let me up.”

“No.”

“Louis, I swear to god it wasn’t like that, I’ll explain if you let—”

“Explain now. Why can’t you just explain now?”

“I’ve got three,” he raises his voice, “ _fucking respect-less pap cunts_ breathing down my neck!”

Louis sighs. Then he buzzes Harry up.

When Harry steps out of the lift minutes later, he’s absolutely soaking wet. White shirt see-through, coat dripping, long hair near-black and clinging to his blotchy-pink face, lips an almost purplish dark-red.

Louis almost feels bad for him. Almost. “Why the fuck did it take you so long?”

“When I got back, she was sleeping,” Harry says and takes a step forward.

“No,” Louis says quickly, raising a hand at him before his feet reach the threshold, “no. Where’d you sleep?”

“Wha’?”

“When you got back and she was sleeping?”

“One of the guest bedrooms,” Harry says, soon as he comprehends the question. “Can I come in? I need to get this coat off.”

Louis looks him up and down, dripping wet and sorry. “No.”

Harry sighs, stumbling backwards a little. Then he starts to shrug out of his coat and lets it drop to the stairway-floor instead. Louis has to look away not to let him in right then, wet white shirt clinging to strong tatted torso and everything. “I’ll answer anything,” Harry says, “anything you want, I’ll answer it.”

“Okay.” Louis watches a drop of rain run down the front of Harry’s pointy boot. “Okay,” he says, “okay, you woke up. What time?”

“Nine-ish. Am.”

“Okay. So you had, what… like, nine hours to talk,” Harry chuckles a little and Louis scowls up at him, “don’t laugh at me. Nine hours, give or take a couple.”

“Give. Like, four,” Harry squeezes out the side of his stupid mouth.

“Don’t fucking mock me,” Louis hisses, “just— shut up, okay? I’ve been fucking— you said you’d come back. You said you’d come back when you’d… when you’d finished and I trusted you and then I sat around all day, just waiting for—”

“I _did_ come back,” Harry interrupts, moving closer when Louis lets his head drop a bit. Louis snaps it right up again, giving him a look that makes him stop where he stands. “I did come back,” he repeats still, “and it _is_ finished. She’s gone to stay at her friend’s place.”

Louis softens, just a little, more out of exhaustion than understanding. “But…” he drags a hand through his greasy hair, “bloody hell, Harry, you could’ve at least texted.”

“I _did_ tex—”

“No, you didn’t,” Louis snaps back, so fast it overlaps because that’s one thing he’s a hundred percent sure of. That’s the _only_ thing he’s been sure of these past many hours. “You did _not_ text me.”

Harry’s brows draw a bit closer. “Yes,” he says slowly, “I did.” His eyes narrow for a moment, and then he blinks, shaking his head, “well not— well, I mean, not from my usual phone. From my other phone. I texted you and called you, like, many times.”

Louis tilts his head. “I’ve not— I’ve—” he’s only looked for Harry in his phone. Anything unknown, anything private, anything that wasn’t Harry’s contact name, he didn’t so much as grant a glance. “Shit.”

“Yeah, I was getting worried, too, cause you weren’t answering at all,” Harry says.

“Well, then it baffles me that you didn’t hurry up just a little getting back here,” Louis says bitterly, “if you were that fucking worried.”

Harry smiles, a little, eyes tired, soft. “I had to take her to the emergency room,” he says, “isn’t that typical?”

“No,” Louis says blankly, because none of this is typical. Nothing’s typical here, at all, except for Harry being so fucking unreliable, “why’d you take her there? Knock her up, did you?”

Harry stares at him without speaking for far too long.

“Oh my god, _did_ you?”

“She forgot her pill _once_ ,” he says shakily, “ _once_ and then she just—”

“Fuck.” Fuck, he’d only been joking. Mocking. Exaggerating. Fuck. “Oh, this can’t be happening, this—”

Harry’s entire face breaks into crinkles. “Louis, I’m fucking with you.”

“What?!”

“Sorry, I’m— sorry, I was fucking with you, she’s not pregnant,” he half-laughs, “sorry, that was just so far out, I had to, like... sorry, I—”

Louis slams the door in his face.

Harry knocks it for a minute straight.

“I hate you,” Louis says, when he opens it again, door-chain locked.  

“I love you,” Harry says, and— yeah. Fuck. “Please let me in.”

Harry moves close enough that his nose touches the door-chain.

Louis puts two fingers to his forehead and pushes him backwards. “Why were you at the emergency room?”

“I told her the truth in the morning,” Harry says, “so she smashed my usual phone against the wall,” he adds, which, right, “and then she said she’d go and kill you so I chased her down the hall. Before I got to her she’d tripped herself and fallen down the stairs. So I drove her to the ER cause she couldn’t walk or press the pedal.”

“Fuck.”

“We sat in the waiting room for fucking hours. I called you several times from the loo but you weren’t answering.” Right. “She’d broken her ankle and sprained her wrist.”

“Fuck,” Louis says, “god, what an awful day she’s had.”

Harry nods, swallowing hard. Louis sees the guilt he’s trying to conceal, and yeah, he feels it too. “So, I drove her back. Helped her pack while she cursed my ear off, which— I completely deserved, I guess. Then I drove her to her friend’s place, which was like, pretty far out of town. In her car. Then I got another car to get back home and then I drove my own car here. And now I’m here.”

“That’s the whole story?”

Harry smiles, small and closed-lipped. “That’s the whole story,” he says softly, eyes roaming Louis, “please let me in, Lou. I’ve not thought of anything but getting back to you since I left.”

Louis closes the door.

Then he unhooks the chain and opens it again.

Harry grabs his coat off the floor and drops it again the minute he’s inside.


	26. Chapter 26

Harry crowds down around him and starts to sniff and nose at his neck soon as he’s close enough. His wet torso presses up against Louis and Louis doesn’t care, just hugs him closer. They stand there like that for a long while, pressed close and breathing in the scent of one another. Louis can smell Mathilde on him, that certain  _other omega_ -scent that makes him dig his nails a little harder into Harry’s back, as well as other people; people of all different kinds of breeds, people brushing up against him everywhere.

He’ll keep him locked in here, he decides quietly, biting at Harry’s collarbone. He’ll keep him locked up in his flat for quite a while.

Harry must smell something too because he pulls back at some point, scrunching his nose down at Louis. “I’ve got, like, a faint alpha-scent coming off of you, but it’s not too bad. Did you leave the flat while I was gone or?”

It takes a second for Louis to realise what it is. Then he grins. “Liam stopped by.”

“Oh,” Harry says, relief flashing behind his eyes, even as he smiles as though he wasn’t worried, “okay. So you didn’t—”

“No, Harry, I stayed in the flat like I said I would,” Louis sighs, rolling his eyes at him, “jesus, calm down. How big of a slut do you think I am?”

“Well, I mean, you had two guys going at once at one point,” Harry points out, and ducks away when Louis tries to bite his cheek, “no, I don’t care how many people you’ve been with,” he says afterwards, “since me or— whatever. It doesn’t matter, you’re not a slut, I’ve been around too.”

“Yeah,” Louis snorts, because he’s seen all the pictures.

Harry smirks a bit. “I’m better now,” he says, “I can be good. I can be— you know. It’s not a need that I have. To fuck around a lot or anything. It’s just been… cause I’ve been bored or whatever.”

“Bored or whatever,” Louis mocks, imitating his fumbling drawl, and Harry puffs at his shoulder with a faux-offended huff, “jesus, what a terrible excuse for fucking around. I was ‘bored or whatever’. What kind of a person are you even, you—”

“Shut up,” Harry growls, getting close again, big arms locked around Louis’ waist in an instant, “shut up, you’re so fucking annoying sometimes,” he grits out half-fondly against Louis’ neck, “you know what I meant, I was bored, like… emotionally.”

They’re swaying awkwardly in the middle of the hall, the balls of Louis’ feet sliding lightly over the floors with how tight Harry’s holding him up against himself. “Emotionally,” Louis mocks and Harry bites him in the shoulder, just a little hard, and Louis winces, just a little louder than he has to. “Put me down,” he says, even though he doesn’t really want it, “put me down.”

“Hm, when I want to,” Harry replies, which means never, because next thing he’s got his hands under Louis’ thighs and and Louis is slinging his arms around the back of his neck to keep from falling.

Their noses flop together a couple million times before Louis fits their mouths together, sucking Harry’s bottom lip in. Harry growls softly into his mouth, hitches Louis up by the arse and presses him back against the wall so he can tilt his head and tongue in deeper, long, filthy slots that has them drooling down Louis’ chin a bit. He pulls back and licks it clean, then kisses Louis again before he can make a snorty remark.

“Lou,” he pants out at some point, slick dickhead peeking out above his trousers, sweaty forehead steadied against Louis’, “you need a shower.”

Louis takes a second the process it. Once he has, he’s offended. “What?”

“You need to shower.”

“ _What_?” Louis hisses, pushing Harry’s face back to shoot him a look, “if you think I stink then just say so, you don’t have to beat around the—”

“You stink.”

Oh. “Put me down.”

Harry barks a laugh into his face, then dips in for another kiss. Louis turns his head so it smears against the side of his mouth and cheek instead. “Lou,” Harry says, “you smell like sweat, but I don’t care, I like the smell of your sweat,” he says, “but I’d just like you to wash off the smell of Liam because— it’d just be really hot if you’d let me wash that off of you and make you only smell like me.”

Louis looks him over. “Nice save, lad, nice save.”

“Thanks,” Harry giggles, and then carries him into the bathroom.

He stands back while Louis pulls his hoodie over his head and drops it to the floor together with his pants. He steps into the shower, leaving the glass-door half-closed, and turns on the showerhead, hissing as the first icy rays splash up his legs. It’s quiet while Louis fucks around, getting the right temperature, but he hears the clatter of Harry’s belt when he steps under the water, closing his eyes.

Harry comes up behind him a second later, quietly closing the cubicle around them and pressing his warm chest to Louis’ back.

“What are you doing in here, you pervert?” Louis mutters, water splashing into his mouth.

“Taking care of you,” Harry hums into the nape of his neck, reaching round to get the shampoo, and Louis doesn’t know what to say to that. Part of him wants to joke, mock Harry for being such a slave to his own breed, but he doesn’t think Harry really he is. He thinks, maybe, that he _himself_ has been a bit of a slave to his need to separate from his own breed. He doesn’t want to be that anymore. He doesn’t want to overthink.

He just wants to let Harry love him.

Harry washes his hair, strong fingers massaging his scalp for ages, mouth sucking slow, sneaky bruises up the back of his neck and shoulders. When he gets to the bodywash, Louis takes over for the most part and Harry does himself up instead, but soon presses up against Louis again and says; “wish I could just lick you clean, you know. With my tongue. I lick your neck clean all the time.”

Louis ignores the swoop of his lower belly, because that’s just too fucking far out. “You do not ’lick my neck clean’,” he says, turning around because Harry’s cock is half-hard and yes, his own is too, but at least his own doesn’t keep wanting to settle and rest between Harry’s arsecheeks. “Knowing where your tongue’s bin, I seriously doubt anything would ever get _cleaner_  by touching it.”

Harry grins sheepishly and hooks his chin over Louis’ shoulder. “Where’s it been?” he asks, voice so low Louis shivers, big hands slipping downward, fingers digging inward.

“Everywhere,” Louis says, and Harry digs a nail into the flesh of his arse and he squeaks.

“Everywhere on you,” Harry says.

“Everywhere on everyone.”

Harry noses into the crook of Louis’ neck and sighs. “All I’m saying is, if I _could_ ,” he mutters, “if I _could_ lick you clean, then,” he rubs his finger over Louis’ rim and Louis hisses, “there wouldn’t be a place on you I wouldn’t put my tongue.”

Louis swallows thickly and steps back a little, face flushed hot. “I’m all clean now.”

Harry nods and pulls his hands back to himself, then lifts one finger, covered in a sheen of Louis’ slick and sucks it clean. “Me too.”

Louis drops the soap.

“Fuck.”

“Good thing this isn’t prison,” Harry says, because of course he says that.

Louis stares down at the bottle. “I’m not picking that up.”

“Why?”

“Because I know you’ll smack my arse or pat my head if I do,” Louis replies, raising his brows at Harry, challenging, “you pick it up.”

“I’m not picking it up,” Harry says calmly, side of his mouth a little quirked, “ _you_ dropped it.”

Louis crosses his arms over his chest. “Oh, well.”

“Oh, well,” Harry pings back at him, mimicking his stance.

Louis sighs exasperatedly, then shrugs and turns to flick off the shower. Harry drops down to pick up the soap, then bites his arsecheek on the way back up.

 

*

 

They pull their shower-slack bodies out of the cubicle, dry themselves quietly and then Harry goes and fucks around with his phone while Louis strips the bed and puts on fresh sheets.

“What’s so interesting on there?” Louis asks after a while of lying naked under the duvet, watching Harry sit on his dresser, consumed by the little screen.

“Just…” he rubs at his nose with the back of his hand, “just, uhm..” finally, he flicks it off and looks up, “just making sure people know I haven’t died.”

“Why would they think you’d died?”

Harry jumps off the dresser and lets his phone drop to the floor. “Because I’m not going to be answering a lot these next couple days.”

“Why?” Louis asks, squeezing the sheets a bit under the duvet, as Harry jumps into bed, all fours like an animal, and comes toward him.

“Because I’m not going to get out of bed much and I’ve left the phone all the way over there,” Harry says, getting under the duvet, inching closer when Louis inches away.

“Why?” Louis laughs, wrestling him off just for the fun of seeing him fight for it, “‘ve you got the flu?”

“Yeah. The Flouis,” Harry grins and Louis accidentally stabs him in the eye with a finger. Accidentally.

He rolls off with a groan and Louis tips onto his stomach, facing his nightstand. His phone’s lying there, untouched since Harry arrived. It probably will be till he leaves again. _If_ he leaves again. It’s uncertain now, he thinks, exactly what anything means and exactly what they’re going to do about it. It’s the good kind of uncertainty, though. It’s _do we call each other boyfriends yet?_ and _do we live together now?_ and _are you as terrified that I forgot to take my morning after pill last we fucked as you would’ve been before?_

It’s the great kind of uncertainty.

“Why’ve you put boxers on,” Harry grumbles, rolling back and laying himself out over Louis’ back.

“Habit.”

“Bad habit,” Harry says, wriggling frustratedly for a while before he settles down properly, “doesn’t feel as nice on my dick as when it’s just your soft squishy bum.”

“Poor little spoiled rockstar-dick,” Louis yawns, settling Harry off too.

He finishes by smacking his lips against the back of Louis’ shoulder and pressing just a little bit closer. “S’not little,” he murmurs and Louis laughs and apologises profusely for the misunderstanding and Harry tells him he isn’t forgiven and then asks _can you take your boxers off_ and then _mean_ when Louis tells him  _yes I can, but I wont_  and then _I love you_ , when Louis’ almost asleep.

 

 

*

 

Waking up with Harry is odd. Last time he did, he had Colin on the other side of him, but now it’s just the two of them and the scary, exhilarating promise of everything that comes with saying _I’m in love with you_ and having had it said right back to you.

Harry’s on his back, snoring loudly, mouth slack and open, hair a wild chocolate halo around his face. One of his poor arms is still trapped under Louis. He sits up to free it, then lays it over Harry’s own chest for him and sits and watches him sleep for a while. Traces a finger down the bridge of his nose, over his nostrils and then along his rosy lips.

Harry bites his finger.

“Fucker,” Louis hisses, and Harry grins around his finger, eyes still closed, “like you better when you’re sleeping.”

“Really?” Harry asks, fluttering open those big green eyes that he has, and looking at Louis in that over-intent making-the-back-of-his-neck-itch way that he does.

“Yeah,” Louis lies.

Harry shrugs a shoulder and closes his eyes again, and Louis slides a hand up to cup the side of his beautiful face. The entire world wants him. Half the entire world’s had him. The entire world’s still right outside, waiting for him, and Harry’s decided to lock himself up in this little flat.

“What it is about me?”

Harry’s eyes open again, one slow blink and then nothing but green, zeroed in on Louis.

“That makes you feel in love?” Louis asks, “because— because I, and pretty much everyone else in the entire world, can tell you a million reasons as to why _I’m_ in love with _you_ , but—”

“As could I to you,” Harry says calmly, and Louis stills, “I could tell you that you’re funny when you’re trying to be and fucking hilarious when you’re just being natural. I could tell you that you’re so fucking smart that you like— you pick on everything. Like, _everything_. Like—” he snaps his fingers, “like this. _So_ quick.”

Louis snorts breathily and Harry just shrugs a lazy shoulder at him, like _well it’s true_.

“I could tell you that every time I’ve reread your books in the past year, I’ve fallen more in love with your mind. That I can almost hear your voice when I read them, and— and I’m in love with your voice, too, so. That’s another one.”

Louis opens his mouth to stop him because this is too much, this is overwhelming in a way he’s never experienced before and it’s making his fingers tremble, but Harry talks on;

“I could tell you that you’re stubborn and over-emotional and a little snappy at times and somehow I’m in love with all of that, too. I love how much you care about stuff, I guess,” he says, “and that, despite having been around the entire world, I’ve yet to see anyone quite as beautiful as you.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Harry,” he rasps out.

“You asked me,” Harry says with another shrug of the shoulder, like it’s nothing, like it’s been on a loop in his mind since he was eleven, “I was saying,” he says, “I could tell you all of those things and they could be very valid reasons as to why I’m in love with you. But, if I’m honest, I don’t think you can ever really pinpoint exactly what it is, can you?”

“What do you mean?”

He chews on the side of his mouth, eyes burning into Louis’ for a long moment. Then he says; “if it’s any one thing in particular, it’s just the look in the eyes, innit. Every time I look you in the eye, I feel eleven again.”

“Oh,” Louis rasps, and then bites at his lips together because they’re twitching, throbbing, “I mean, I— I understand why you prefer fucking from behind, then. If you feel eleven when you look me in the eye.”

Harry’s eyes stay wide and round for a moment. Then his entire face crinkles up and he rolls his eyes. “You know what I meant.”

“Yeah,” Louis breathes, and presses his finger into a dimple.

 

*

 

An hour or two later, which is approximately something pm in the afternoon, Louis drags himself out of bed and cooks up a stir-fry. He brings it in on the blue plaid-patterned trays Liam gave him for a moving-in present and Harry claps his hands excitedly and fights through burnt bacon and lukewarm beans without so much as a flinch.

Maybe stuff like that is part of why Louis loves him back, Louis thinks to himself as he picks a bit of scrambled egg out of the dip of Harry’s collarbone and eats it. Or maybe it’s something exactly along the lines of what Harry fumblingly explained to him earlier; nothing to pinpoint, nothing to spot. The look in the eyes and the feeling inside, that undefinable, impalpable thing that makes the thought of staying in his bed bumping shoulders with Harry for the rest of his life seem pretty all right.

He spent the past many years of his life reminding himself of all the reasons why he loved his husband, but at the end of it all it changed nothing because… he didn’t. He just simply didn’t. It didn’t sit in his chest, clench up his stomach, buzz to his fingertips, spark between two sets of eyes, it just simply— didn’t.

But this does. It just simply does.

“It scares me, though,” he tells Harry when they’ve finished eating and put the trays down on the floor and cuddled up together and Louis is attempting to braid a strand of his hair and Harry is drawing hearts on the inside of his thigh.

“What?”

“I’m scared that, uhm— fuck, I’m not sure. I don’t know.”

Harry shifts a little, then stills, then reaches round and pulls Louis’ hands out of his hair, turns onto his side and looks at him. He loops a hand around one of Louis’ wrists, pulls it up and kisses it, then says, eyes big and serious, “there’s one thing we can’t do, Lou.”

“What?”

Harry intertwines their fingers and licks at Louis’ knuckles. “We can’t do this, properly, if you’re not willing to be vulnerable with me.”

“How?”

“Like…” Harry lets Louis’ hand rest on the side of his own neck, “you have to say. You can’t deflect. You have to say if there’s… stuff. You know. Cause I know - trust me, I _do_ know - that it’s easier to just, like… act above it all and not talk about things. But, I’m not doing that. Because I’ve done that before and it’s ended me up hurt and not with you. I want to end up happy, _with_ you. You know.”

“Right,” Louis breathes, “yeah, course, yeah. Yeah, that’s— that’s what I want, too.”

Harry smiles, brows still furrowed. “What scares you?”

“Well,” Louis says, taking a deep breath in through his nostrils, Harry’s scent calming him bit, “exactly this, I think. I’m scared that— that you’re making a lot of promises, - and no, I don’t think you’re lying - but that you’re setting both yourself and me up for disappointment,” he says, “I guess, because… I mean, you’ve wanted this for a long time. So maybe, when you’ve had somebody on a pedestal, once you _do_ get them— I mean, and you’ve had a lot of people. You’ve— I mean, even with Mathilde, you moved her into your house, and then you ended up losing interest and—”

“Right,” Harry says, dry voice cutting right through, “and you’re afraid that I think I want this with you, but that I’ll lose interest in a month and leave you or cheat until you leave me.”

Louis doesn’t say anything.

Harry sighs.  “Listen,” he says, “I can tell you what I feel, but you’ll never be able to actually look inside my brain and see if I’m lying to you, or myself, or whatever. You never will. You’ll also never be able to predict the future, just like I won’t. That’s just a fact. That’s just life.”

Louis nods, swallowing audibly.

“So, if you’re going to be vulnerable, which is, like— something you have to be. Like, it’s not a question. I’m telling you, as your alpha, that’s an order,” Harry says, eyes firm even as the corner of his mouth quirks upward, “then part of being vulnerable is that you’re risking it. For me. Like we talked about before. You have to risk it because— because I do too. You’re not the only one here who’ll get heartbroken if, in two years, suddenly, unexpectedly one of us does something horrible that we can’t possibly predict. But you have to, like— be okay with that. With the risk. You just have to.”

“That’s an order?” Louis asks, teasing, but fond.

Harry nods proudly. “That’s an order.”

 

*

 

Hours later, they’ve hardly left bed at all. It’s been incredible. They’ve not fucked once, but Louis hasn’t really thought about it, hasn’t really felt the same sense of urgency that he used to. They’ve had all the time in the world. They’ve talked and talked and talked, and they’ve laughed, kissed, cuddled and licked and bitten around, they’ve just been. Here. Together.

Now it’s dark out, and Louis’ just woken from having nodded off while they spooned and talked nonsense. The lights are off and the duvet that he’d kicked off to the floor earlier’s been pulled up around his shoulders. Harry must’ve gotten up after Louis fell asleep. Opened the window a bit too, he thinks, as a cool gust of air hits his face.

He pulls the duvet up even higher and then reaches back and pulls a warm Harry back around himself.

Harry growls in his sleep and noses into Louis’ neck, claws at his belly and presses up against his bum.

“Hey,” Louis whispers, not really expecting a response, but just putting it out there anyway.

“Hm,” Harry grunts hoarsely, grabbing his hip and grinding into him. “Lou.”

“Harry,” Louis replies, arching and pushing back on his hard dick, at which Harry growls in appreciation and licks a fat stripe up the side of his neck.

Harry clears his throat and slips a hand down the back of Louis’ pants. “Are you wet,” he’s asking, while feeling for himself, biting at Louis’ shoulder when he finds the answer he was hoping for. “Louis.”

“Harry?” Louis chuckles breathily, while stripping his own dick.

“Louis,” Harry rasps, yanking down on the back of Louis’ boxers, “Lou, you’re so—” he nudges his cockhead at Louis rim and Louis gasps, and Harry stills.

Louis twists his neck to look back at him and makes instant eye-contact. Harry’s nostrils are flared, brows furrowed, eyes dark.

“You can put it in,” Louis says, and when Harry keeps looking at him like that, adds on a whisper; “you can put it anywhere you want.”

Harry makes a rough noise and dicks in a little. Louis bites back a hiss and keeps eye-contact. “Why?” Harry breathes hoarsely. “Why do I get to?”

“Because,” Louis says and takes the hand Harry has on his lower belly, moves it down between his thighs, “because you’re my alpha,” he says, for the first time ever, and Harry whimpers, loudly, and then dicks all the way in at once, swollen knot and all, eyes screwing shut like it hurts.

Louis _does_ hurt. He grabs the pillow in front of him and hugs it tight, bites into the corner of it.

“You’re so good, _ah_ , you’re so, so good, Lou,” Harry’s babbling into the nape of his neck, hips flush, but still against Louis’ arse, sweaty legs tangled as much up in Louis’ as four legs possibly can be. He’s holding onto the inside of one of Louis’ quivering thighs, all fingers dug into the flesh expect the thumb, rubbing affectionate circles. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, you’re so good.”

Louis spits the pillow out of his mouth and gasps for air. “Fuck.”

“All right?”

“Yeah,” Louis croaks breathlessly, leaning back to feel Harry’s face against his own, “yeah, you’re so good.”

Harry presses a sloppy kiss to the side of Louis’ mouth. “Fuck, Lou, this is so good. This is so, so good, fuck, I just wanna stay like this, I could just stay this way, just inside you like this.”

“You’re rambling,” Louis half-laughs, reaching a hand back to smooth Harry’s sweat-wet hair back from his face, “and this isn’t exactly the first time you’ve been inside me.”

“First time where it isn’t bittersweet,” Harry mumbles against Louis’ jaw, which he’s littering little bites up. “First time I know I’m inside what’s mine. And I don’t have to worry about someone else or— it’s just mine.”

Louis ignores the way his entire body flushes hot, cheeks burning, and breathes out, “like a toy.”

“Like _my_ toy,” Harry corrects, and nips at his earlobe, “no, it’s— I’m yours just as much. I’m yours too, you know that.”

“Yeah,” Louis says, twisting despite the ache in his neck and meeting Harry’s eye, “you’re my alpha, innit?”

“Fuck, I can’t handle hearing you say that,” he groans, snapping his hips as if he isn’t already balls deep, “fuck, keep saying it,” he goes on, finding a deep, hard rhythm, “Say it again. Say it, Louis.”

Louis throws his head back, catching his breath and says it. “You’re my alpha,” he pants out, “you’re my alpha.”

“Yeah, I am,” Harry grunts, sliding a hand round the back of Louis’ head and pushing it down so his chin touches between his collarbones, “say it, _ungh_ , say it with my name. Say, _ah_ , say it.”

Louis lifts his chin so Harry can hear him better, but Harry pushes his head back down before he speaks.  

“Down,” he says, “say it.”

“You’re my alpha, Harry,” Louis whines, keeping his head bowed for him, keeping his back arched, being a good omega, “Harry, you’re so good, you’re so big, please— please, you can—”

“Can I knot you?”

“You can bite me,” Louis gets out, “you can bite through.”  

Harry stops moving, lips parted against the nape of Louis’ neck. For a moment the only sound filling the room are their pants.

Then Harry tips his weight over Louis’ back. Louis’ face presses into the mattress, but Harry pulls him up by the hips fast, and he steadies himself on hands and knees. Harry kisses up Louis’ spine and curls over him, gently taking his arms and folding them so he’s on his elbows instead, tells Louis _arch your back, babe_ ,and then gets the deepest Louis’ ever felt him.

Louis makes a noise that feels like it comes all the way from the bottom of his stomach.

“I love you,” Harry breathes against the back of his shoulder, “is it okay?”

“Yeah,” Louis grits out, “yeah, just— _really_ deep. Never had anyone this, _ungh_ , this deep before.”

“Only me?”

Louis manages to snort out a laugh and slap a hand back to pat Harry’s hip. “Only you, big boy.”

“Lou,” Harry whines, suddenly, grabbing his wrist and pinning it back down into the mattress, “I’m gonna knot, I’m—” he rocks fast into Louis, fingers linking through the backs of Louis’ and Louis squeezes them back hard and whimpers as he takes it, “head down, down.”

Louis puts his head down and lets out a loud yell as he shoots off into the sheets.

Seconds later, Harry’s clasping onto the fronts of his thighs like a dog, clinging to them and pulsing into him, growling and then biting the nape of his neck. Louis gasps, then bites the pillow as the pain intensifies, staying on elbows and knees even as his entire body goes into violent shakes. Harry’s teeth breach skin and Louis screams around the pillow, but fights through it, lets the pain wave through his limbs until it’s part of him, until he can revel in it and he’s throbbing all over, buzzing to the toes, high off it.

Louis has absolutely no idea how long Harry’s had his teeth in him by the time he finally pulls back.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, voice shaking, “yeah, I’m— overwhelmed.”

Harry makes a whimpery little noise that without a doubt means _yeah, me too_ , and begins to lick Louis’ wound clean, kiss it all better. They’re tied and Louis feels vulnerable and small, but the safest he ever has, feels like one big nerve, trembling all over, needing Harry close, closer, needing like he’s never felt need before in his life. For the first time since Harry started knotting him, it doesn’t feel like there’s a foreign part inside of him, intruding and clinging on for dear life. It feels like clicking into place, like parts of a puzzle, fitting together like they’re meant to. Like being bonded.

Eventually, Harry rolls them onto their sides and tucks the duvet in around them, curls one palm around Louis’ lower belly as it rounds more with every load he shoots off, and rests his soft lips against the wound on the nape of his neck.

He doesn’t stop saying _I love you_ until Louis falls asleep.

 

*

 

When Louis wakes, they’ve untied, but both Louis’ arse and neck hurt like they’re still being breached. It’s a good kind of pain, though. Sort of like when you walk like you’ve had your arse pounded by a jackhammer, but you’ve really just had an intense work-out the night before and your body’s reminding you how well you did. Sort of like that.

He’s shifted around during the night and is now lying halfway over Harry, head rested on his shoulder, one thigh between his legs. Harry’s already awake, watching himself play with Louis’ fingers.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says soon as he catches Louis looking.

Louis scolds himself for letting it happen because he can tell that Harry’s the sort of awake that doesn’t allow for anyone else to peek so much as one eye open and then close it again. He’s awake now, and that’s the end of it. “Goodmorning,” he groans.

“I retract the ‘sunshine’ from my former statement,” Harry announces on a lazy drawl, “on grounds of misinformation.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I was lead to believe I was greeting ‘sunshine’ goodmorning, but sadly, it was her evil twin ‘grumpy’ who woke this morning.”

Louis groans and rolls over. Harry laughs and rolls with him, curling around him from behind and resting a hand on his lower belly again. He’s never done it like that before; holding Louis’ belly like he’s protecting it from something. There’s something so inherently sweet about it that Louis can’t bring himself to make a mocking remark about it.

Instead, he says; “how’s my bitemark look?”

“ _My_ bitemark,” Harry corrects, and he’s already inspecting it with his lips and nose, “it’s beautiful. It’s perfect.”

Louis smiles to himself. “Just like me?”

“Just like you.”

“Ew.”

“See, I knew you’d react like that and yet I also knew you’d have been silently offended if I hadn’t responded with those exact words.”

Louis closes his mouth, because, well— all right.

They spend the next long while in bed together, Harry licking him all over, especially around the neck, especially around the bitemark. He takes a picture of it on Louis’ phone and shows it to him at some point. There’s a thin scab over the bits where he bit through skin now, just enough to keep the blood inside him, but it looks more violent than Louis expected it to.

“Is it sick that I kind of like that?” he asks Harry when they’ve put the phone away again - after deleting the picture, of course, because _Lou-eh, that’s like taking a picture of your heart or something, it’s too intimate, you can’t leave random pictures lying around of people’s bonding-bites, if you want some taken, they’ll have to be professional, I know a guy_.

“No, it’s not sick,” Harry says, still utterly awed by his creation, “it’s beautiful.”

Louis traces a line in Harry’s palm and then asks, after a beat; “does this mean we’re, like—”

“This means I love you,” Harry says quickly, “this means, _please_ don’t freak out and panic over expectations. I don’t have any. I just love you.”

“I love you back, Harry,” Louis says, because he thinks there’s still a part of Harry’s which has permanently resigned itself to believing the fact that Louis doesn’t love him back. It’s not something he’ll be able to change in a day, he knows. It’s something he’s going to spend as much time and effort as it takes to work on, though, because it’s worth it. “And I don’t mind expectations. I don’t mind them at all. In fact, I’d be sad to hear it if you _didn’t_ have any. You know I want marriage again one day, house, car, dogs, kids, all of that shit. I’d hate it if I put everything into this and then found out in five years that you never wanted any of those things. It’d break my heart.”

It’s something he’s thought about. He never thought to bring it up, but after last night it’s no longer felt like something which was way out of order. If they’re serious about each other, he has to at least know that, at some point, in the far away future, Harry wants the things which are deal-breakers to Louis.

For one, not to be jumping country every other year for the rest of his life.

“I feel like we’ve talked about this before,” Harry says, and there’s something sharp to his voice that makes Louis want to turn and look at him. He doesn’t, though, because Harry keeps kissing and licking at his bruise, rubbing his belly and massaging his lower back, and it seems important to him that he keep being allowed to. “But, for the record, I’m not going on tour again. I said no.”

“What do you mean, you said no?”

“We had a meeting about it. We’ve spent this last year putting together the next album. But I said before we got going with it, I wasn’t going back on the road. Even if it meant being forced to quit the band, I wasn’t going to do it.”

Harry’s fingers twitch a bit where they lay in front of Louis, so Louis reaches out and holds them. “Why?”

“I hate it,” Harry says, voice rough, earnest, “I fucking hate it. Flashing by cities so fast you hardly see them, anonymous hotel-rooms, fucked-up sleeping patterns, fucking random people because they get off on the fame, and, like— I miss my mum. All the time, so.”

Louis can’t help a fond little chuckle. “You miss your mum?”

“Well, I do, I’m sorry for being a big baby,” Harry says, “I just do, I want to be able to drive up to her’s on the weekends or something, I just… I want my mum. I want England. And Gemma, her and James’ third one’s on it’s way, she just announced it, they’re moving back to HC as well. And now, like - this is not me trying to put any sort of pressure on you, I hope you don’t think that, but - now I definitely won’t go back. If I’ve got you and everything.”

Louis swallows. “So, what, you’re— don’t you think you’ll go stircrazy, not doing anything? You love singing and the crowds and—”

“It’s funny, I love singing, I do. But, and I know this sounds spoiled and I don’t regret anything that’s happened, I’m so happy I got to experience everything and, well— earn all of that money, but… touring kind of kills any joy I get out of singing. If I’m honest, I’ll be happy just singing in the shower for the rest of my life. I don’t need the recognition. I just want real people and a place that feels like home.”

Louis clears his throat. This all sounds a bit too good to be true. “You’re not just saying all this now cause—”

“No, honestly, Lou, I told the lads all of this, like, months and months before you and I started up again. I could actually see myself as just, like, being at home with some kids and taking care of them. While my husband or wife was at work. I’ve always liked the idea that. I guess when I read your newest book about alpha’s, I didn’t feel quite as stupid for wanting something like that, even as I’ve had major success and loads of opportunities career-wise,” he explains, “and, like, why do you think I invited Mathilde to live with me despite maybe not feeling that much? I was trying to, kind of, build myself that base that I wanted. Even if I couldn’t have it how I really wanted it.”

Louis twists his head a bit to look at him and Harry smiles softly, leans in and kisses him. “How did you really want it?”

“Hm,” Harry tilts his head, gaze gliding up and down Louis’ face, “Lou.”

And— somehow that’s all the answer he needs.

“First, though,” Harry says when Louis’ turned back around and melted back against him, “we’ve got to date for a bit. Just to feel as though we’re not rushing into things. Just to steady our own nerves.”

“Sounds like a good idea.”

Harry hums in agreement against the back of his ear and Louis shivers, just a little. This is still all quite new, however connected he feels to Harry after last night. “And we’ll be going on a first date.”

“Do we have to be awkward? You know, just to fit the first-date kind of vibe?”

“Yes, you’ll be wearing glasses and overdoing it with the jokes and I’ll be tripping myself all the time and staring much too intensely.”

“Good idea.”

“But it’ll still go all right because we’ll be going someplace that’ll ease the tension.”

“Oh, where to?”

Harry shifts, and his voice is suddenly childishly enthusiastic when he speaks again, “okay, so there’s this indoor waterpark not too far out of Holmes Chapel, right? I went to it that summer that you got put into the omega sanctuary and met Colin. Mum had bought surprise tickets for you and me beforehand, but then we ended up having to bring Will instead, which was, like— really fun, but I didn’t get to share a bed with you like I’d looked forward to, so. That was disappointing.”

“Oh, Harry, I’m sorry—”

“No no,” Harry cuts through, eyes wild when Louis looks back at him, “we’ll be going, after all. On our first date. And it’s not, like, a question. It’s an order,” he adds on, pushing his jaw out, “from your alpha.”

Louis chuckles and rolls his eyes at him. “Okay, then, I guess I’ll just have to bow down and obey.”   

“You will,” Harry agrees, and then grins and kisses him silly. “There’s only one issue, though,” he says after a while, “it’s a children’s waterpark and it’s kind of creepy if we’re going two grown men alone.”

“Well,” Louis replies, laying his hand over Harry’s where it rests over his belly still, “if we wait nine months and a bit, we might be lucky. I haven’t been on any sort of birth control for over a year.”

He expects Harry to freak out and jump out of bed, screaming about morning after pills, but he doesn’t. He does stiffen, though.

“Oh my god,” he says, “oh my god, Louis, do you— should we— can we, like… we, uhm.”

Louis half-laughs. “You all right back there?”

“Yeah, just—” Harry shifts backwards, then tips Louis onto his back by the shoulder and crowds over him, “oh my god, what if—” he crawls down and lays his head on Louis’ stomach, right where it peaks, “can we, like - I mean, if it’s all right with you - can we, like, not do anything. Just see. I mean, cause— cause, I just feel like it’s the most ethical thing to do, you know? Let nature decide.”

Louis curls a hand into his hair and tips his head back to meet his eye. “You’re preaching about letting nature decide? _You_ , Harry?”

“Well,” Harry says, fighting to concentrate, gaze constantly flicking from Louis’ eyes and down to his belly, “oh my god, what if it’s twins?”

“Oi,” Louis snaps his fingers at him, “what’s going on? What’s happened to your whole, like— morning after pill-fetish?”

Harry presses his nose into the softest part of Louis’ belly. “You smell like you’ve got a baby in you,” he says, “I can smell them in there, so. Just for the record.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Louis laughs, stomach punching at Harry as he does, “and how do you know it’s twins?”

“Cause I’ve got super-semen, so,” he says, “it’s at _least_ twins.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Harry grins up at him, chin in his belly. “Lou, I’m only obsessed with birth control cause I don’t ever want to bring children into the world if I’m not sure, cause— I’ve wanted children all my life, I want to be sure I’m doing it right. But, but— but if it’s you, if it’s us, and you’re not, like, married to a third bloke or something stupid, then. Then, yeah. I’m not too scared. You know, to at least let Mother Nature call the shots.”

“How can you be sure we’ll be together nine months from now?”

Harry looks at him blankly. “Well, because I paid the omega-rental guy half a million so I get to keep you for at least a year.”

“You’re so fucked up,” Louis laughs, and squirms away when Harry jumps up to kiss him again.

“Hey, no, get back here, I’ve paid for a year, I want my money’s worth.”

Louis gives up, mostly due to laziness, and deflates on his back. “Thought you got that last night?” he says, “your money’s worth.”

“Oh, baby,” Harry growls between kisses, “last night was only the beginning.”


	27. Epilogue

“So, Louis,” the interviewer, Bernie, who he met up with at a quiet café round the corner from his house, says, “we’ve talked about your latest book, ‘Hi, my name is Daddy, I’m Louis’, about your life as a father of seven and a professional as well as a husband. I’d like to get some facts down for the spread. Could you just list your children and their ages down one by one?”

Louis nods, even though she doesn’t see it. “Yes, of course,” he says, “should I just start?”

She glances up at him from her laptop and nods distractedly. “Yes, yes, please.”

“All right, well… I’ll start from the oldest. We’ve got Andrew, aged thirteen,” he says, watching her tap her keyboard, “and his twin, Archie. Also thirteen, funny enough.” She doesn’t chuckle. He stifles his grin. “And Ian, aged eleven. Marcus, aged ten. And the triplets, Dev, Daniel and Dean. Three years old, all three.”

“Goodness,” Bernie says, “house full of boys.”

“Yep. More than enough for a family band, as my husband likes to remind them. Not that they’re particularly interested in that, they—” Louis cuts himself off, realising she isn’t listening and that he’s just rattling off about his children like he has a tendency to do. “Anyway, that’s all seven of them.”

She taps for a moment, then looks up at him, eyes a bit narrowed, smile slow. “And, Louis—”

“Yes?” Louis asks, smiling as he watches her work out how to way to phrase the question he’s been waiting for.

“Can you confirm that you and your husband are expecting number eight?” is what she ends up on.

Which is more than fine. He’d been planning to confirm the rumors in this interview no matter what she’d said. He’s three months along and showing, a lot, so it’s beginning to become ridiculous not to publicly address it. Mostly, it’s just been laziness. That, and Harry’s incessant need for privacy or, as he calls it, ‘keeping a sense of mystery’.

“Yes,” Louis says, now, because it’s time, “number eight in the making.”

“Congratulations,” Bernie says, smiling widely, “you’re honestly glowing, I have to say.”

Louis chuckles. “Thanks, it’s just puke-sweat,” he says, just to horrify her, “morning sickness.”

“Right. Right.” She coughs and turns back to her laptop, tapping again. “Do you, ehm— do you know the gender?”

“No,” Louis replies, “no, not as of yet.”

She nods. Can’t have it all. “Well,” she says, closing her laptop and looking up, “congratulations again, Louis. About the little one as well as your sales numbers. It seems you really _can_ have it all, huh?”

Well. When you’re married to a retired rockstar millionaire, Louis doesn’t say. “It does seem that way,” he says instead, “I’m grateful every day.”

 

*

 

He walks home because it’s nice weather out and it’s only five minutes. Harry doesn’t like him walking round on his own while pregnant, but Harry doesn’t get a say in the matter and a nice bit of outdoor-exercise never killed anybody. Particularly not in a place like Holmes Chapel. They’ve lived here now for just over eleven years and the worst thing Louis’ experienced in all of that time was an elderly lady forcefully stopping their stroller to ask Harry for an autograph.

No, it’s nice here. Peaceful. Great for the kids, which is undoubtedly the single most important factor in deciding where to live. It’s rare that he misses London these days, but if he ever does it’s nothing that can’t be fixed by a prolonged weekend-trip with the kids up to Niall and Liam’s or Zayn and Perrie’s.

But, that’s rare. He loves it here. He loves the house they chose and made into a home together.

It’s a redbricked three-story one with a dark green roof and a massive garden for the kids to run around in. It’s three streets away from Gemma and James’ place and only two houses over from Harry’s mum, which— well, Anne helps out a lot so Louis can’t complain. There’s a big garage with space for three cars, although they only have two at the moment; the massive minivan that fits the entire family and the new Porsche that Louis tends to drive when showing off for business-related reasons.

He walks up the front path, nearly trips over a mini-motorbike, and then makes it inside in one piece.

When they first bought the house, the walls were burgundy and the floors a rich dark mahogany. They had all the floors redone, a nice smooth light wood instead and the walls painted something Harry referred to as “egg-nog”, as well as the panels painted white. They don’t keep a lot of knick-knacks or framed photo’s because they’ve learnt, from experience, that having vases and glass out on display doesn’t mix well with raising seven sons.

Most of what decorates the house these days is made of plastic. Actionman figures, miniature versions of anything and everything on wheels, foam-bulleted weapons, crayons, lego’s, basically anything designed to hurt like a thousand knives up through the foot if you step on them.

It’s awesome.

“Lou?” Harry calls out from the livingroom, as Louis begins to pull off his trainers whilst being attacked by all their dogs and scratched slow and intently on the back of his calf by the sociopathic cat Harry “rescued” from the streets half a year ago.

“Hiya, darling!”

“Daddy!”

“Hi, love, I’ll be in in a minute, I just have to— fu-lippin’ heck, move aside, boys, move aside.”

Harry comes stumbling into the hall and grabs the grand danes round their middle’s, pulling them backwards, while shoving the three smaller ones aside by his feet.

“Why the fuck do we have so many—”

“Language—”

“Why the _flip_ do we have so many dogs?” Louis pants, finally throwing off his shoes and resting back against the wall. “And why didn’t we neuter that horny bastard over there before he made offspring? Look at the that little shit,” he says, pointing to the grand dane’s puppy, “a week from now, he’ll be taller than me.”

“Well, that’s not exactly a huge accomplish—”

“I knew you were going to say that,” Louis hisses, and Harry laughs. “I hate you.”

“Mhm,” Harry says, finally making way over to Louis as the dogs lose interest and pad back into the other room. He rests one hand on the small of Louis’ back and the other on his baby bump, leaning in to sniff his neck and then kiss his lips. “Hate you too, darling,” he murmurs into Louis’ mouth, “soon as this last baby’s out, you’ve out-played your role and you can leave.”

“S’funny, you said that before the last four ones, too,” Louis murmurs back, smoothing his hand over Harry’s hair and resting it at the back of his head.

When one of the triplets yanked on Harry’s hair so hard he accidentally knocked his forehead into the corner of a table, he ran up into the loo and insisted he was going to buzz it all off. Louis almost cried at the thought, so Harry left it long on the condition that Louis learnt how to french braid. Now it’s always tightly pinned back, hanging in one thick braid down his back. If there’s one reason to want the kids to grow up a little faster, it’s that Louis wants to be able to rake his fingers through Harry’s lovely hair again.

“How was the interview?” Harry asks, face rested in Louis’ neck. Harry’s always tactile, but when Louis’ pregnant it’s on a whole different level. He needs to touch, hold, pet, wants to be as much part of the experience of the pregnancy as a non-carrying partner can.

“Was good. Went great. She was nice.”

“That’s great,” Harry hums, hand slipping up under Louis’ shirt to pet his belly, “how’s baby?”

“Good, good, she’s just chilling out in there.”

“Or he,” Harry says.

“It’s a she,” Louis insists, “I can feel it.”

“You’ve said that with literally every single one of our sons,” Harry replies.

“Yeah, and I’m bound to be right one of these times.”

Harry’s eyes go wide and bright. “One of these times. Does that mean we’re—”

“No, Harry, that does not mean we’re having more than eight bloody children, jesus. Unless you wanna carry them, of course.”

“I do,” Harry exclaims, “if I could, I would,” he says and he isn’t even lying. He’s obsessed with everything baby. Louis once bought him a weight-realistic strap-on baby bump while pregnant and ended up having to secretly bin it because Harry grew way, way too fond of wearing it.

They head into the livingroom where they find Anne, since she tends to come around every day, sitting on the carpet with Dev in her lap. Daniel and Dean are fighting over who gets to sit in the diver’s seat of their miniature-car.

“Andrew’s brought a girl home from school,” Harry says after having split them apart, bopping a whimpering Daniel in his lap while Dean drives off across the livingroom.

“Has he rea— _shit_ ,” Louis hisses, when Dean drives over his foot, at which Harry and Anne exclaim _language_ in unison, “my apologies,” Louis sighs, “has he really?”

“Really, what?”

“Brought a girl home?”

“Oh.” Harry tugs his sleeve over his own wrist and wipes drool off of Daniel’s chin, “yeah. They’re up in his room. Sweet girl. Daughter of that woman who works at the bank, I think. What’s her name, you met her at the play, the one with the blonde hair, she—”

“Oh, the pretty one. Right. Well, if the mother’s any indication of the daughter, he’s done well for himself, the little charmer.”

Harry grins. “I let them go up on their own,” he says, “I thought about telling them to keep the door a bit open or something, but… I don’t know. I mean, at thirteen I was always told to keep the door ajar, but that didn’t stop me from—” his gaze flicks over Louis’ shoulder and meets Anne’s. “I mean, from not doing anything, so. At all.”

Anne laughs. “From what I’ve seen, you two are lucky with yours so far. Harry was a right bastard.”

“I was good, mum, I didn’t even have a drink till I was fourteen.”

“Mate, we broke into my parents liquor cabinet and nearly died at eleven.”

Harry gives Louis a sharp look. Anne just laughs.

“Anyway,” Harry says, “Ian’s at the footie trials and Archie’s sleeping over at Tim’s place and Marcus is doing homework - at least that’s what he said he was going up to do. I better go have a look, he said he had a lot of reading to do.”

“No, let me,” Anne insists, “I wanna barge inconveniently in on Andrew and his girlfriend, it’s been so long since I’ve done something like that.”

She puts Daniel down, who then crawls into Louis’ lap instead, and puts his little head on the baby-bump.

“You hear anything, buddy?” Louis asks, petting his soft caramelbrown hair. “Is the baby talking?”

“Yes!”

“What’s it saying?”

He steps back and looks up at Louis, wide-eyed and grinning. “It’s saying,” he throws his arms out, “I’m a girl!”

“Is that so?” Louis glances over at Harry and raises a brow at him, “well, isn’t that just funny.”

 

*

 

Harry makes a big pot of spaghetti-bolognese for dinner while Louis kicks a ball around in the garden with the triplets to build up their appetites.

“I don’t like you playing ball when you’re pregnant,” Harry says as Louis helps him set their ten-seater diningroom table. “It doesn’t feel safe.”

“It’s fine, the ball is, like, ninety percent air, it’s made for the pool,” Louis assures him, but Harry still stops him to feel the belly and nose into his neck and ask if baby’s okay a few hundred times. Louis puts the triplets in their chairs and fights the battle of keeping them seated while Harry goes upstairs to get the big boys down.

Andrew’s girlfriend leaves just before Louis gets to catch a glimpse of her, but it’s just as well because that means they get to tease the hell out of his rosy-cheeked face all throughout dinner. Lovingly, of course.

“I heard noises,” Marcus says from the end of the table, eyes glinting manically, “from their room, I heard noises.”

“Yeah, me too,” Ian chimes in, “that’s why I didn’t do any of my homework, it was bloody impossible.”

“Shut up,” Andrew grits out, gaze on his plate, cheeks burning red, “shut up, shut up, shut up.”

Harry chuckles. “Okay, ease off now, lads, leave Andrew be,” he says, and Andrew looks thankful, but only for a second before Harry adds, “he’s had a _very_ draining day.”

“Dad!”

 

*

 

Late in the evening, when the triplets are finally down, as well as the rest of the kids - unless they’re staying up to read with a flashlight under the duvet or watch dirty videos on their phones, of course, but that’s none of Louis’ business - Harry and Louis get ready for bed.

Well, Louis is flossing and Harry is attempting to place a pair of headphones around Louis’ babybump.

“It’s too small still, Harry, I won’t work,” Louis groans, “and besides, do you really think the baby’s gonna be able to pick up on the tunes at this stage already?”

“You’d be surprised,” Harry mutters, turning off the classical music he’d found on the iPad with hunched shoulders, “I’ll try again in a week or two.”

“You do that, daddy,” Louis says, and then throws his floss at him, “catch!”

He doesn’t catch. It lands on the floor and Harry bends down to pick it up and, yeah. Still, after all these years. Yeah.

“Come to bed, babe.”

Harry flicks off the last of the lights save for the ones on the nightstand and slips in beside Louis. Louis draws him close soon as he can and fits their mouths together. Harry hums appreciatively and they kiss, slow and sloppy, for a while. Eventually, Harry crawls down to say goodnight to the baby and Louis undoes his braid while he’s at it.

“Come up to me,” Louis says, digging his fingers in, finally, his favourite part of the night, and pulling Harry back up. Harry goes easily, nosing into his neck and breathing him in, cupping his belly and licking at him.

“I can’t get over how you smell when you’re pregnant,” he’s saying, rolling Louis onto his side and fitting around him from behind, “I can’t stop touching you.”

“You never can.”

“That… is not entirely untrue.”

Harry’s mouthing at the scar on the nape of Louis’ neck when he arches into him, twists his head a little and asks, “fuck me?”

“Yes, please,” Harry gasps, and Louis laughs and then Harry begins to pull down his boxers and then the door gets opened.

“Fuck.”

Louis yanks his pants back up and Harry’s already jerked up to sit. “ _Andrew_ ,” he’s growling, “what have we told you about knocking?”

“Sorry,” Andrew says, voice so small and timid that Louis sits up too, concerned.

“You all right, pal?”

He nods at the floor, but doesn’t look like it. His chocolate curls hang over his eyes and he’s wringing his hands.

“Darling?” Harry asks softly, “if there’s anything you want to talk about, you know you can. You can talk to us about anything in the world.”

He nods again, biting his lip. Harry and Louis sit quietly, having learned that - as opposed to his twin Archie, who needs constant and relentless probing and poking at to ever open up about anything - the best way to get Andrew to talk is just to give him time.

“Uhm,” he does say, eventually, lifting his head, but not making eye-contact, “this is really— I’m just really— I just want to, uhm. Maybe, you guys could get me a doctor’s appointment?”

“Yeah, sure. For what, love?”

“Fuck.”

“Language.”

“ _Flip_ ,” Andrew corrects, “uhm, so— so, uhm. So, I think I’ve got an STD.”

Harry and Louis both still.

“I just— ehm, there’s this weird, uhm. This weird, like, thing on my— fuck, I don’t want to talk to you guys about this, can I just get a doctor’s appointment, I think there’s something wrong with my penis?”

Louis’ chewing on his nail now, unsure of what to say. When Harry doesn’t say anything either, he spits his nail out and forces himself to say; “yeah, of course we’ll get you an appointment if something looks wrong, love. But— you know you can’t actually get an STD if you haven’t had sex with someone, yeah?”

Andrew bites his lip. Oh.

“So, you— okay. Okay,” Louis rambles. He’d never want to shame his kid for being naturally curious. Hell, Louis knows Harry lost his virginity at a ridiculously young age, too. But, still. It’s his baby. And he’s _thirteen_. “Okay, well, of course, yeah, we’ll call the doctor in the morning. And don’t worry about it, lad, it’s probably nothing.”

Andrew nods, but still doesn’t look convinced. “Okay,” he says, “okay, yeah. Thanks, dads.”

“No problem, lad.”

Andrew glances nervously over at Harry, then back at Louis, then nods again and then turns to leave.

“Wait,” Harry calls out then, “uhm.”

“Yeah?”

“When did you first notice this— weird looking thing?”

Andrew glances over at Louis again, and then back at Harry and then at the floor. “Like, when, eh— well, we haven’t had proper sex or anything, but when we’ve been kissing and stuff. And when she’s been doing— stuff. During and after, there’s this, eh— like, this kind of… swelling. At the base. And it’s really, eh— weird-looking and sensitive.”

And— oh.

Harry tilts his head, a slow smile spreading over his lips. “That’s nothing to worry about, darling,” he sighs fondly, “nothing to worry about at all.”

“But— does this mean that— cause I was thinking, but I didn’t want to suggest that, but— maybe that I’m—”

“Yeah,” Harry says, “yeah, I think you might be. So— congratulations. Don’t worry about it. We’ll talk, just you and I, yeah? About precautions and protections and ways to cope with certain stuff and... Any questions you might have.”   

Andrew nods, smile beginning to tug at the crooks of his mouth. He pushes his shoulders back. “So, if— if I’m alpha, then— then Archie is too, in’he? Cause we’re identical and they said at school that identical twins are always the same breed, so.”

Harry nods. “Yeah. That’s what it means, then.”

“Should— can I tell him?”

Harry glances over at Louis and then back at their son. “Why don’t you let him figure it out for himself, yeah?”

“Okay. All right,” Andrew says, a little disappointed, but still jittery with excitement, “all right, so— okay. Thank you. Thank you, I’ll— I’m going to bed now.”

He turns, but Harry stops him with a soft call of his name.

“Yeah?”

“I know this is incredibly exciting, but I just wanted to remind you,” he says, “this doesn’t in any way determine who you are or what kind of a person you’re meant to be. You can be anything in the world that you want to be and you’ll never be wrong for it, whether you’re alpha, omega, beta or a bloody chipmunk, it doesn’t matter. As long as you’re kind to others and true to yourself, you’re exactly how you’re supposed to be. Okay?”

“Okay,” he says, still jumping in his spot a bit, “I love you both.”

“We love you too, darling. Goodnight.”

“Congratulations!” Louis calls after him, just before the door closes and he’s speeding off down the hall.

Louis plops back onto his back on loud sigh. “Bloody hell.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, dropping down beside him, “thought we handled that pretty all right.”

“You handled it brilliantly, Haz.”

Harry lifts one of Louis’ slack hands and high-fives it. “That was one.”

“Only seven more to go.”

 

*

 

A week later, they’re at the most exciting ultrasound appointment so far.

“So,” the doctor says, rubbing the cool gel on Louis’ bump, “are you interested in knowing the gender?”

Harry and Louis exchange quick looks and then nod. “Yeah, we want to know.”

The doctor smiles as the ultrasound appears on the screen and she begins to look around.

“But honestly, we couldn’t care less either way,” Harry begins to say, “if it’s another boy, we’ll be elated. If it’s our first girl, we’ll be elated. It doesn’t matter,” he rambles, “— and honestly, like, what even _is_ gender? You can’t tell what someone identifies as through genitalia alone, that’s just a social construct that—”

“It’s a girl.”

Harry nearly jumps out of his chair. “Oh my god, are fucking kidding me, oh my god!” he exclaims, “Lou, we’re having— we’re having a little girl, we can— we can paint the nursery pink and put her in little dresses and bows and— oh my god, we’re having our first girl.”

“Yeah,” Louis cry-laughs, “or, I suppose we won’t know until she’s old enough to tell us what she identifies as, right?”

“Right,” Harry mutters, nodding quietly, “right.”

“We’re having a baby girl, Haz.”

Harry’s eyes beam right back up again. “We’re having a baby girl!”

They hug and kiss the doctor far too much before finally leaving the room, buzzing with excitement. First they’re going to tell Anne because she’s back home babysitting the triplets now anyway, then they’re going to tell Gemma and the lot, and then they’re going to call Lottie and then—

And then Louis sees something that makes him stop dead in the middle of the waiting-room.  

In the corner of the room, on a blue plastic chair with a paper-mug of coffee in his hand, sits Colin. He’s in a plaid button-down and he’s grown his beard out, a nice trimmed layer framing his jaw. He’s put on a bit of weight and his black hair isn’t all black anymore, sprinkled with grey all over. He’s with someone, a young blonde man, holding his hand and laughing at something he’s just said.

It’s been ten years since Louis’ last seen him and he looks the happiest he ever has.

“Lou,” Harry mutters, leaning into him, “isn’t that—”

Colin looks up and directly into Louis’ eyes then. His face falls. Louis’ throat goes dry.

He begins to move before he realises it, and soon he’s standing close enough to say, “fancy seeing you here.”

It’s absurdly casual, but Colin just laughs, tilts his head back and says, “fancy that, huh.”

He introduces them to his husband, Felix, a young kindergarten-teacher whom he moved to Cranage for two years ago and is now going through fertility treatments with. They talk for a bit, but run out of things quickly. It doesn’t feel uncomfortable, though. It just feels like life. They aren’t the same men they were fourteen years ago and there’s nothing left to talk about. They’ve outplayed their roles in one another’s lives, and yet Louis feels grateful for this little encounter. For seeing that Colin is happy, that he’s found someone too, and for looking into the eyes of the man he once knew better than anyone and finding that the feeling is reciprocated. Finding something along the lines of _I’m happy to see that you ended up happy, and it’s okay that it wasn’t with me_.

“Have a good day,” Louis says just before they part ways, and it feels like _have a good life_. The smile Colin replies with tells him the same.

They’re sitting in the car, pulling out of the parking lot when Harry says; “they looked happy.”

“Yeah,” Louis says, “his husband. Felix. Was he beta or—”

“Omega,” Harry says, and glances over at him after a moment, “seems you weren’t all that wrong about beta-omega relationships after all. It’s just about finding the right one.”

“Yeah,” Louis says, pulling his hand in and threading their fingers together, “it really is.”

 

*

 

“Oh,” Felix says, when Colin’s just told him who it was they just awkwardly small-talked with. “My god.”

“Yeah,” Colin says. It’s been more than ten years since he’s last seen Louis. He’s still just as stunning as he was at fifteen.

Felix turns to catch another glimpse of Louis and Harry, but they’ve just left.

“Wow,” he sighs, turning back to Colin, “are you all right?”

“Of course.”

Felix takes his hand and smiles. “Well, it’s nice he’s found someone.”

“Yeah,” Colin says, and squeezes Felix’s hand.

Of course, Felix doesn’t know the full story. He doesn’t know about Harry, or those months that Colin fought through with them, he doesn’t know more than what Colin’s told him. That he left when he fell out of love. And then, many years later, he met Felix and he fell into love for the first time since. The part of it that matters is the truth.

The full truth, Louis doesn’t even know. But it doesn’t matter now.

When Colin left all those years ago, he was just as in love as he’d been the very first time he saw Louis. At the time, he didn’t think he ever wouldn’t be. He’d been willing, ready, to keep trying for the rest of his life to make things work, but when he sat down with Louis that last night they had together, and told him he’d been cheating with the man that’d knotted him against his will and Louis didn’t even react, he knew. There was nothing left to fight for. Louis was going to stay for as long as Colin let him, but his heart had left a long time ago.

Lying to him to let him be happy was the hardest thing Colin ever did.

For years after, he was convinced he’d never love again. He’d resigned himself to that fact, he’d accepted it. He made partner and he made a name for himself career-wise, he got a new dog and had a lot of great sex with a lot of different people. But the part of him that fell in love still belonged to Louis. Even if it wasn’t requited. Even if Louis loved someone else.

And then he met Felix.

And slowly, but surely, he weaved his way into Colin’s heart. Showed him what it felt like to have someone fight for him. Showed him what it felt like to have someone love him back just as fiercely as he loved them. Showed him what it felt like to be enough. 

“Was it weird seeing him?” Felix asks him after a while of silence, “did it feel— I mean, you were _married_.”

Colin looks at him and smiles. “No,” he says, and then leans in and kisses the love of his life, “I’m just happy that he’s happy too.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This was the end of it :) hope you liked
> 
> And thank you to everyone that kudos'ed and commented throughout, it's really motivated me and flattered me, every single one!
> 
> ps. i've posted the first chap on another fic named Waterbridge, so go have a look if you're interested in reading something else from me :D

**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr is pointerbrotherblog :)


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